


The Magic Cottage

by Swift_tales



Series: Days of Legend [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 07:50:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 45,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swift_tales/pseuds/Swift_tales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin and Gwaine are tracking whoever's kidnapped Arthur, Leon's marching away to meet Mercia's invading force with an army, while Lancelot and Gwen must keep watch over the city.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ampthill is a desolate little village, Barwick thought as he overlooked the trampled fields. Nearly all of the little huts had been burned down, what few animals there were had been slaughtered for meat and the villagers themselves, well…. A few of them had tried to run across the open fields and had been hunted down and killed like sport. Some others had tried to hide; but in the end nearly all of the men had been killed, the women raped and the children murdered, taken as servants or raped and brutally beaten to death. It was a cruel law of war, but Barwick had seen it all before, time and again and much worse even, the way a hired soldier saw those things. He tied his horse to the remains of a fence and set out to look through the empty buildings, to see if anything valuable had been left behind or hidden. Some of the villagers had gotten lucky, Barwick knew. He’d seen two women, a handful of children, accompanied by one man sneaking away by the river bank. They’d probably made it to the forest of Ascetir by now and from there they might make their way to Camelot. Barwick had let them go; a war needed messengers to spread its horrors. 

There was nothing of value, except for a silver hairpin he found underneath a pillow and a few coins stuffed in a jar hidden in the back of a tiny cabinet. There was nothing else, of course: a village as poor as this one. Barwick will get his rewards later. He’d get paid by the king of Mercia for his services and when they sack Camelot itself, there will be plenty of riches to go around. He might even make enough to retire on that. He’d gone to Camelot once. He’d seen the Upper Town and the gold and silver that must be locked away in those houses, Barwick wouldn’t know what to do with all of it. He just had to make sure he timed it right; don’t go in with the first wave, too likely to get yourself killed. Don’t go in last, though, because then there’ll be nothing left. Sneak in with a third, maybe fourth, company, that should do it. 

He made his way back to the encampment and offered the silver hairpin to Elsbeth, who eyed him suspiciously. But she took it and stuffed it in her satchel and gave him a piece of bread and a bowl of hot stew in return. All without turning her back to him once. Careful girl, Elsbeth was. Rumour had it, her village was sacked when she was a maiden and she joined armies looking for the men who killed her parents until she gave them her maidenhood and slit their throats while they lay in a sated sleep afterwards. Barwick knew better than to believe stories and rumours, but he had seen Elsbeth pull back men by their hair and slit their throats with a grin on her face. He had also seen her torch houses, drown children and set fire to fields full of crops. Would a woman whose village was sacked do that? Maybe she was just a hired soldier, like Barwick, who was born to nothing and had nothing except the nails on his fingers used to claw a sword out of a soldier’s hands and kill him with it. He was a simple man, who committed horrors because the world was a horrible place. 

He ate his food around the fire, surrounded by men eating what little they could scrounge up, drinking mead secretly because Mercia’s troops had been forbidden to get drunk, and smoke their pipes. Some were talking, but most ate silently, eyeing each other warily. They weren’t part of Mercia’s regular forces. Swords for hire they were, bastards and thieves and murderers who needed to make a living one way or another and couldn’t be trusted not to steal your weapons, food and coin from under you. A Captain of the Guard in a blue cloak had been assigned as their watch-dog and he gave them all disgusted looks; none of them good enough to polish his boots but welcome to do his fighting and plundering for him. Barwick knew the kind; lily-livered noble bred sissies.

He finished his food quickly and went back to his tent. The woman he’d taken from the village whimpered the second he stepped inside, her feet still shackled to the posts of what was supposed to pass for a bed. He ignored her and carefully took out all the coins in his pouch. He counted everything he had and nodded to himself. After Camelot he might be able to retire. But not here; Albion was on the brink of war, he could see it in the hunger on people’s faces, the whispers in dark alleyways and the distrust people showed to strangers. Uther Pendragon was dying, so everyone said, and he had forced all of his allies into following his anti-magic laws. When he finally kicked the bucket, kingdoms would break treaties, magic users would crawl out of the woodwork, clans and tribes would return from beyond the Wall to take revenge for the people they’d lost. He’s heard the young Pendragon, Arthur, is well-loved and will be a strong king, but he’ll be unprepared for the depth of hatred people have for his father. That hatred will make surprising alliances that will either run Pendragon over in a single night or make him fight for years to a bitter end. Still, it might not come to that, if Mercia took Camelot before the week was done. Even then, others will want part of the spoils and Mercia will keep it for itself and suddenly find itself without allies to fight off the vultures. 

Barwick scratched himself. He could go to the continent. He’d heard of a land with only sunshine and empty fields and dunes as far as the eye could see. He could go looking for a place like that, settle down in a village, have a woman, maybe a brat or two to look after him in his old age. It sounded calm and peaceful, boring as fuck. But man can’t be a soldier forever, or he’ll die before his time and Barwick was old enough already. Camelot would be his last battle, one way or another. 

“Stop yer wailing!” he snapped at the woman on the bed and she cowered away from him. Well, she was a broken one, anyway, he reflected. Women, he spat on the ground, can’t keep them around for too long. He should put her out of her misery or maybe he could still make some money off her, sell her to one of the men who didn’t manage to snag anyone or anything during the fight. There were plenty of unfortunate souls out there who’d like a bed warmer. But she wasn’t much of a looker and all torn up and bruised. She wouldn’t fetch him much and she might get sick and die and then whoever he sold her to might demand his money back. More hassle than it was worth. He stuffed the pouch with his money down his belt and picked up his sword; finished her with one clean slice while she screamed until he thought his ears might start bleeding. Well, time to go. It was almost dark and he had clear orders to follow. 

His horse’s ties had come loose, but she hadn’t moved, only female in the world worth trusting. He mounted and rode out. All around him were the burned and blackened remains of the crops, trampled by horses’ hooves and human feet running for their lives. The air was grey and full with the threat of rain. Rain’s bad for battles; makes the ground soggy and treacherous. But sky like that could clear up, Barwick knew. He didn’t put much stock in old wives’ tales about the weather, or people who claimed they could feel the rain in their gimp legs or whatever. The weather did whatever it needed to do and it didn’t see fit to inform poor mortals what it was up to. He rode until he came across the picket lines. He paused there for a moment. He could see the forest of Ascetir; a brown and green blob in the distance, nothing but open field between them. He swiveled his head to the right. There were a few villages in that direction, and then, behind the horizon, a forest, and then, Camelot. Most of the villages there were too close to Camelot to plunder, which was a shame; all this sitting still wasn’t good for any man, but news must have reached Camelot by now and they had probably sent out an army and you wouldn’t want to stumble into an oncoming army. Better to lie in wait and see it coming. 

He urged his horse forward and the sentries let him go. He urged her faster still until she broke out into a full gallop, the wind whistling past his ears. It took him nearly five hours to reach the edge of the forest surrounding Camelot, by that time the woods were pitchblack in the dark and he only had the full moon to guide him. Twice he had to quickly hide among the trees, the sound of single horses moving past him. They were obviously messengers, so Barwick left them alone. If anyone ended up finding the little buggers dead, they might alert the knights that there was a spy surrounding the city. Spying was usually not part of Barwick’s list of duties, but he happened to know these particular woods well enough and he’d opened his fool mouth and said so. So here he was. 

Barwick was not a patient man, but life had taught him that there was some good to be found in waiting. This time, the waiting didn’t take nearly as long as he’d feared. Messengers were coming and going all night, but he paid them no mind. When dawn came, the wide Northern Gate opened and an army started streaming forward. Barwick knew he’d struck gold. All he had to do now, was wait, wait for the sign of a golden haired commander, blue-eyed with the crest of Camelot on his cloak. The tack of his horse would be richer and better worked than the others. His chainmail would be of the highest quality. Others would defer to him. He would most likely be leading his army, riding in the front, but he might be at the back, supervising the departure of the men and the wagons that went with them, filled with supplies and servants walking beside them, everything necessary to feed and camp and army. 

But he never did see that blond-haired commander. He saw a straw-haired one, with a beard, tall, competent looking young man, whose horse’s tack was well cared for, but old and of poorer quality than say, the dark-skinned man riding beside him, whose tack was brand-new. They were riding with a tree of a man, who looked like he could flatten the horse underneath him. Dark Skin was riding in front with Tree Trunk, but Tall Straw was obviously giving the orders, yet he didn’t have the regal baring of royalty. He was nobility, though, for sure. He was talking to a rather short, brown-haired man, who wasn’t holding the reins of a horse. Probably ordered to stay behind and babysit the keep. A young, pretty woman was standing with them. She seemed to be listening intently, but did not speak. Eventually, when everyone had passed through the gate, Tall Straw mounted his horse and rode to the front of the marching men. Short Brown and Woman watched him go, worried looks on their faces. Barwick craned his neck and he could see a whole crowd of worried people gathered on the streets behind them. 

Barwick urged his own horse forward and followed Tall Straw, where he joined Dark Skin and Tree Trunk at the front. They spoke softly, looking worried and Barwick would look worried too, if he was supposed to have a golden-haired commander who was nowhere to be found. Still, Barwick urged his horse to the west and did another tour of the forest to make sure a second force hadn’t left through another gate, but Tall Straw was the only one leading any kind of expedition. Orders completed, Barwick left the forest and detoured back to Ampthill through the Darkling Woods. It took him hours to get back and he was exhausted by the time he reached the encampment. He was still far ahead of the army though, who were slow because not all of them were horsed and they were being followed by carts that needed pulling and servants who had never learned to march in double pace. 

He relayed what he’d seen to his direct superior, the captain in the blue cloak who deigned to actually look him in the eyes when he spoke. After that, he went to find some breakfast. Elsbeth couldn’t be persuaded to give him some more bread and she had her hand on her sword the whole time they talked. So he walked to the other side of the camp, found a run-down tent, murdered the hired sword inside and stole whatever coin and food was left. He then calmly, leisurely strolled back to his own tent and went to sleep. Whatever the people in charge did with the information, he could care less about. He did not know that the captain he spoke to was named Cenwig and that he was the first son of his house, nor did he care that Cenwig had risen fast in the ranks of Mercia’s army and that he’d distinguished himself from the mass of faceless knights in Mercia’s command by claiming credit for other people’s work and leaving no loose ends behind. Barwick never saw the blue cloaked figure stealing into his tent, stealing his coin and driving a sword deep into his belly. 

Cenwig did not enjoy killing people as a rule, but he could not say he minded having to kill Barwick. The man had fulfilled his purpose, but he was a waste of space; a thief, a rapist, and, worst of all, a bastard. He had no name, no father, no family, no loyalty to anyone and so no one had any loyalty to him. He would not be missed. Cenwig opened the pouch, shook it until the coin fell into his palm and then secured it in his own purse. He left the pouch in the tent. No one saw him leaving and those who did quickly looked the other way. He passed a woman stirring a pot with a silver pin in her hair and when she heard him approach she looked up and watched him pass, never took her eyes of him. He glared at her, willed her to look away, but she never did, like she knew what he might do to her if she did not guard herself well enough. 

Cenwig stepped on, beyond the miserable looking tents of the hired swords, into the field filled with the respectable, small tents of the trained footmen of Mercia’s army and eventually, beyond that, the splendor of the nobility’s tents and the grand pavilion of the king. He announced his presence to the guards, who informed the king and eventually, he was let in. 

The pavilion was luxurious, designed to display wealth instead of practicality. There were several brackets with hot coals and fire to keep the tent warm. There was carpet on the ground and the canopy of the tent was high enough for everyone to stand tall. A long dining chair stood at one end, with seven chairs arranged around it; one at the head and three at either side. The table was filled with gleaming cutlery, plates and goblets as well as several bowls of vegetables and a huge platter of fowl of some kind. At the other end there was a throne on a raised dais, a small chair and desk beside it. A scribe was sitting on the small chair, scribbling away on a piece of a paper. The king sat on the throne, both hands on the arm rests, back straight and his expression dark. But the king always had a dark look about him, never content. A small figure in a green cloak was standing in front of the king. When Cenwig pushed back the tent flap and stepped inside, the hood swiveled in his direction, but the face inside was covered in shadows and he could not see it. The small figure moved to the side and was silent. 

Cenwig bowed. “Your majesty.” 

The king’s eyes looked him up and down and Cenwig resisted the urge to straighten his already straightened tunic. 

“Cenwig of Maros.” The king inclined his head lazily, a gesture of reluctant yet freely bestowed respect. “You have returned from your mission?” 

“I have sire,” Cenwig said and squared his shoulders. “I have seen the men leading the army and I believe that Arthur Pendragon is not among them. I believe that Leon of Conway is in command, with a few of Pendragon’s chosen knights.” 

The king released the arm rests and leaned forward. “You are certain?” 

Barwick had been very clear in his descriptions. “Yes, sire. Pendragon is not with the army, though I was unable to ascertain whether he is within the city. There was a small group of people watching the army depart, but Pendragon was not among them.” 

The king dismissed his words with a flick of his hands. “The young Pendragon would not send his men out to fight on his own, even if he was not planning to raise his sword himself. Besides,” his lip curled with disgust, “he would not ask his men to fight a battle he is not willing to fight himself.”

“Some would say that is an admirable quality,” said the green hooded figure; his voice was high and soft, like a boy’s, but there was something sinister hidden in the tenor that sent shivers down Cenwig’s spine. 

The king stood. “Admirable!” He scoffed. “Foolish! Is more like it. A king must command an army, not fight at the head of it. Uther is old and weak. If Arthur dies who will lead Camelot? To have no regard for one’s own safety is the worst trait a king could have! He should keep himself safe, to rule another day, let the masses die for him if they wish.” 

The small figure gave a low bow. “If my lord says it, then it must be so.” 

Cenwig eyed the exchange somewhat uneasily, if this high-voiced creature provoked the king’s temper, Cenwig did not wish to be anywhere near the eruption. But the king dismissed him and instead stepped closer to Cenwig. “Leon of Conway is a good knight, but he is yet unproven as a strategist. He will make the first mistake. Order everyone to fall back behind the river Thaus. Tallow!” He barked and turned to the scribe. “Draft a message to Sir Leon and tell him that we wish to offer him a chance to negotiate peacefully at Cadarn Afon.” 

Cadarn Aforn was a fortress built at the exact place where the river Thaus forked into the river Mosoon into Mercia, while Thaus herself streamed further into Camelot and further still into Cenred’s kingdom. In the old days it had been a stronghold of the Old Religion, called _Cadrnle am the Afon_ , meaning “Fortress of the River” in the magic tongue. A village of druids had formed around it, but both the village and the fortress had been destroyed during the purges. It was rebuilt afterwards to serve as a watch tower against Mercia; a constant thorn in the king’s eye; a sign of Uther’s arrogance and audacity. How fitting that it would now serve as the place where the doom of the Pendragons was finally sealed. 

He turned back to Cenwig. “Choose from the knights the best swordsmen and archers and bring them to me.” 

The young captain nodded, bowed and left the tent. Bayard went back to sit at his throne. He threw the boy in green a sharp glance. “You admire Pendragon?” 

The hood swiveled to look at him, but he could see no face within its folds. The small shoulders seemed to shrug. “It makes no difference to me how admirable Pendragon seems to be. I know his true heart.” 

Bayard looked at him suspiciously, but eventually nodded, dismissing the conversation. “Very well, you may inform your mistress that I believe she has kept her end of the bargain. When we conquer Camelot, the throne will be hers.” 

The small figure nodded and left the tent. Bayard tapped the ends of his fingers together. He did not usually choose to consort with such … people, but the offer had been too good to refuse. They would ensure that Arthur was missing from battle, which would cause such a low morale that the army would hardly put up a fight. With both Arthur and Uther out, a suitable commander would be hard to find. After he had sacked Camelot, Mercia would get all the lands of Camelot that lay between Mercia and the river Thaus and a rich reward and all Morgana wanted in return was her revenge and her throne. 

To Be Continued


	2. Chapter 2

The river-path through the White Mountains took them high up, where it was colder and the wind cut through clothes and seemed to be trying to freeze Merlin’s ears right off his head. Gwaine had his cloak wrapped tight around him, holding the edges together with gloved fingers clenched around the reins of his horse. Merlin was wearing Arthur’s old, long, brown coat. Arthur had disposed of it nearly three years ago and Merlin had kept it because the fabric might be a little worn, but it was still better than anything Merlin could ever hope to afford. Still, it could have been much worse and by the time darkness settled in, they had already been descending again for about an hour. Gwaine suggested that they rest. The full moon was on her second full night and its cold, silver light showed the way. There wasn’t enough wood around to make a fire, so they bundled up in blankets and coats and lay close together for warmth. 

Gwaine was adamant that they sleep through the whole night this time. They’d barely gotten 2 hours sleep in two days and that just wasn’t enough to catch villains on. Merlin fell asleep quickly and didn’t wake until the weak light of morning was hitting him in the face. Gwaine was already up; he’d watered the horses, packed up his bedroll and laid out some food. He was quietly munching on an apple and looking at the map. Merlin clumsily rolled out of his blankets. 

“Morning.” 

Gwaine looked up briefly and then nodded. “Morning. Any idea where they’re off to today?” 

Merlin repeated the ritual with the amulet and looked at the map. Since the last time he’d looked, the previous morning, the mercenaries had skirted the Valley of the Fallen Kings and they must have kept moving throughout the night because they had now reached the river connecting the Great Seas of Meredoc with the lake surrounding the Isle of the Blessed. Merlin didn’t like the look of that at all. Not only did it look like the mercenaries were headed to the Isle, all of the miles Gwaine and Merlin had gained on them by taking a pass through the mountains instead of going around were lost because they’d stopped for the night, but the mercenaries hadn’t. 

“They know we’re coming.” 

Gwaine frowned. “What?” 

“Gaius warned they might be able to sense someone is tracking them with the amulet. They know we’re coming and that’s why they didn’t stop for the night.”

Gwaine nodded, tracing the X markings on the map with his finger. “They must have realized by now that one of them left his amulet and that we’re coming for Arthur. They want to hand him over to whoever’s paying them as quickly as possible. Get their money and get out.” He laid his finger on the drawn ruins of the Isle. “Do you think this is where they’re taking him?” 

Merlin nodded. “It’s possible Morgana is hiding out there, if she is the one paying them. But they might be moving to the sea. They might have a ship waiting there for them. We have to catch up.” He stood and quickly started packing up his bedroll. “I’ll eat something on the way.” 

Gwaine helped him. “Isn’t there something you could do, make us go faster?” He wiggled his fingers. 

Merlin shook his head. “No, I don’t know.” He’d never really looked into anything like that. He could call Kilgarrah and ask him to fly them to where Arthur was, but then he’d have to explain to Arthur how Merlin got a dragon to bear down on the mercenaries. Also, Kilgarah did not appreciate it when Merlin climbed unto his back. Merlin shook his head again. “No, there’s nothing. We’ll just have to hurry.”

They mounted their horses and this time Merlin hung the amulet around his neck and kept the map in front of him, spread out on the saddle. Around midday, when they’d made the descent halfway, Merlin repeated the spell without stepping down from his horse. The X was ever closer to the Isle of the Blessed. The mercenaries must have realized that they didn’t want to be caught between whoever was paying them and whoever was chasing them. “They’ve reached the shore of the lake.” 

“Have they crossed to the Isle?” Gwaine asked, leaning dangerously out of the saddle to try and get a look at the map. 

“No, not yet,” Merlin said. 

“They might not at all,” Gwaine offered, but Merlin knew, he just _knew_ , that feeling in his gut clenching hard, that Morgana would be at the Isle and that’s where they were headed. 

They continued on, down the winding, rock-strewn mountain path until it became less steep, grass started to spring up along the rocks while the river’s flow became gentler. A few trees lined the riverbed, but they were few and far in between, pitifully thin and with few leaves on their branches. One had been blown over and was half-decayed, its bark a dark, molting brown. Merlin’s horse nearly stumbled on the steep down-hill, but managed to stay on his feet. Merlin patted his flank nervously and tried the spell again. The damning blue X was right on top of the ruins. 

“They’re on the Isle.” Merlin said. 

Gwaine nodded and urged his horse forward. “So, Morgana?” 

Merlin nodded. “Probably. If Arthur is dead, she is the rightful heir to the throne of Camelot. Once Uther is out of the way, her claim to the throne will be lawful. No one would be able to refuse or challenge her. Camelot will be forced to swear its allegiance to her.” 

“Does that mean Arthur’s already dead?” 

The words cut deep and Merlin’s breath stuttered. “No, she’ll want to punish him.” 

Gwaine frowned. “For what? What’s Arthur done to her?” 

Merlin shrugged. He didn’t know the answer. He knew why she hated Uther and why she hated Merlin, but he didn’t know why Morgana had come to hate Gwen or Arthur or anyone else she’d once called friend. He didn’t know what Morgause had told her during the year she’d spent with the druids. He only knew that if she won the crown of Camelot, Gwen’s life was forfeit. Merlin would probably already be dead by then and all the knights who hadn’t died in battle against her would be killed if they didn’t give her their swords.

The path beneath them finally straightened until they were galloping across an open field. They consulted the map again and the blue X had moved beyond the Isle of the Blessed. It seemed to be heading towards Carleon. 

“They’ve probably delivered Arthur and now they’re getting the hell out of Camelot.” Gwaine said when Merlin passed him the map without dismounting. 

Merlin didn’t say anything, just urged his horse to go faster. They came to the edge of the Valley of the Fallen Kings and Merlin led them to where Lancelot and Percival had blocked the pass. The Valley was narrow enough there and the horses made the jump with little difficulty. Merlin was lucky he and Arthur had gone on so many mad adventures over the years. He knew the terrain like the back of his hand. They rode on until nightfall when the horses were too exhausted. 

Merlin fetched firewood while Gwaine hunted a rabbit Merlin could make into stew. The familiar work of cutting whatever vegetables they had and adding the rabbit and the water and the roots and berries he’d collected from the forest helped soothe Merlin’s nerves. 

Gwaine was studying the map. “We’ll want to take the round way back to Camelot.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“If Morgana gives chase, she’ll expect us to either take a direct route back to Camelot, or to hide out in the Valley of the Fallen Kings. It’s familiar terrain, well defendable. Arthur’s hidden out there before.”

Merlin nodded. “What do you suggest?” 

Gwaine frowned at the map. “We can go North; in the direction of Carleon and skirt the White Mountains on the northern side; approach Camelot from the West. We could also go South, follow the river until we find either a village or the Great Seas. Hide out there for a day or two and then cross the fields until we get to Camelot.” 

Merlin ladled some of the stew into a bowl and gave it to Gwaine along with a piece of bread. He filled his own bowl, took another bite of bread and sat down next to Gwaine. He looked over the spread out map. 

“There have to be a few villages next to the river. If Arthur is injured, he might need a physician. One of the villages might have one.” 

Gwaine nodded and slowly ate his stew. “Do you think it likely, that Arthur is injured?” 

“I can’t imagine that Arthur was taken without a fight. He might not have been badly injured, but if he was and it’s been left untreated for all this time….” 

Gwaine took a bite of bread. “Or he could be fine,” he said with his mouth full. 

Merlin let out a puff of breath. “Or he could be fine.” 

They ate the rest of their food in silence. Merlin cleaned the pot and bowls and tied them back to his saddle. Out of habit, Merlin repeated the ritual with the amulet and the map and saw that the mercenaries were steadily moving closer to Carleon. He wondered how they could travel so long without rest, but they probably knew spells or magic that Merlin didn’t. Eventually, Gwaine and Merlin laid out their bed rolls close to each other, though it took some maneuvering to get both rolls near the heat off the fire. In the still darkness, the light of the fire a soft orange in the corner of his eye, Merlin stared up at the sky. The stars were hidden by dark clouds. 

“Merlin?” 

“Yes, Gwaine?” 

“Does Morgana know of your magic?” 

Merlin shifted and turned to look at Gwaine, who was also staring at the sky, arms behind his head. “No, it’s our only advantage.” 

“Are you stronger than she is?” 

Merlin didn’t know. The dragon had been always been its usual cryptic self when discussing Morgana. The only thing he would tell Merlin was that if Morgana was allowed to come into her powers she would one day spell the doom of Arthur and Merlin and the dream of a united Albion. How exactly she would do that and how much power she had at her disposal Kilgarrah never mentioned. 

“I don’t know. I might be, but Morgana is powerful. She wouldn’t have been a priestess of the Old Religion if she wasn’t. I just don’t know how powerful.” 

In the dark, Merlin couldn’t help but speak softly, at a near whisper. The forest around them was silent. Gwaine’s words were just as soft. 

“So, you’re pretty powerful then, Merlin?” 

Merlin didn’t answer and Gwaine didn’t ask any more questions after that. He thought back to the first time he’d ever stood face to face with a priestess of the Old Religion. Nimueh had been powerful. When he’d seen her, on the Isle, holding the cup of life, he had felt it in the air; a crackle, a living presence almost. She’d looked so young, but she’d been a powerful priestess even before he or Arthur had been born. He could still remember, even feel the deep burn of her magic in his chest, knocking him the ground. He’d gasped for breath; the smoke from his own burning clothes and flesh searing his nose. There’d been a moment of stunned surprise, of shock and fear and then there had been _the anger_. Something old had rushed through him. His magic had burned come alive and seemed to burn his veins from the inside out. 

Lo and behold, the sky had opened up and smote Nimueh where she stood. He still didn’t know what that meant. He’d never been able to reach that place again and a part of him didn’t want to. The anger had been frightening and he didn’t like the thought that anger might be the source of his power. He didn’t want to be the king of sorcerer who stood on hallowed ground and felt nothing but hate. He shifted, turned to face the fire, feel the comforting heat of it on his face. He didn’t know if he could do it again. Could he vanquish Morgana like that? He’d never tried to face Morgana directly. He’d always pretended to be Merlin, the clumsy servant who happened to stumble onto and destroy all of Morgana’s plans by accident. He kept his secrets close to his chest and worked behind the scenes. He wondered what it would be like now, all of their secrets out in the open. He’d never really fought anyone with magic before, not the way that Arthur fought people. 

Arthur might be dead by now. His stomach nearly heaved at the thought. Surely, Merlin would have known? He would have felt it, in the air, in the earth. The whole world would have been shaken to its very foundations if Arthur had died. Albion would already be burning if her Once and Future King was dead. Surely, surely, they would know. He curled into a ball and crossed his arms close to his belly. Merlin would know. He would know. He bit his lip to stop himself from crying. He would know. He would have known the second Arthur had breathed his last breath. Merlin would be dead already if Arthur had gone beyond the world. 

He could hear Gwaine shift behind him, until his friend’s arms were holding him in the dark. “He’s alive, Merlin.” 

“I know.” But the words sounded choked and forced to his own ears. “I know.” 

Gwaine squeezed him gently. “I have faith in you, Merlin. Tomorrow, we’ll go to the Isle, we’ll get Arthur and we’ll be back in Camelot in time for supper.”

Merlin tried to laugh, but it came out like watery wheeze. “Cook will be pleased to see us.” 

Gwaine chuckled. “Yes, she’ll make a feast like you’ve never seen before. She’ll make veal. I can always go for veal, Merlin. And stuffed tomatoes with leek and carrots. Maybe even those little honey cakes you like so much. Arthur will let you have a few, for saving him, and then we’ll all get drunk on wine, like a few nights ago. We’ll drink and have a party, because people in Camelot, I’ll tell you, I’ve been around and have never met a people more eager to party. Except for myself maybe.” 

Merlin listened to Gwaine’s soft rumble and with the heat of the fire in his face, he slowly fell asleep. Gwaine could feel the slow rise and fall of Merlin’s breathing and hear the soft snore that was more like a sniffle, if Gwaine was honest. For a moment or two, he kept talking, until he was sure that the sudden silence wouldn’t wake Merlin. He closed his eyes and patiently waited for sleep to come. With his last coherent thoughts he wondered about what the others were doing now. 

Miles away, in Camelot, the first evacuees from the surrounding towns were beginning to arrive. 

To Be Continued


	3. Chapter 3

That first night, when the knights and soldiers of Camelot were slowly preparing for the oncoming war, and Merlin and Gwaine slipped from the city, Gwen couldn’t sleep. She’d offered to help, of course, but there was nothing that she could do and Leon had asked her to go home and get some sleep. Gwen had agreed and she’d gone to bed because there was nothing to be done and at the very least she could ensure that she would be well rested to work hard and help in the morning. 

But she couldn’t sleep. Worry gnawed at her belly like some unholy beast had slithered down her throat and was curling around her innards. She’d known Camelot through crisis after crisis, but she’d never known Camelot in times of war when neither Arthur nor Uther were in any state to defend their country and their people. She had faith in Merlin, but she also knew Morgana, better than any of them. It was true that Morgana had become cruel and savage, but she had been ruthless and lethal even when fighting for Camelot. If she had her hands on Arthur already, how would he ever come back alive? She squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to think about it, but images of Arthur, broken and bloody danced before her eyes. Eventually, she dreamed about Camelot burning, the knights being hanged in the courtyard and the people reduced to begging on the streets for mercy. 

Morning came and she woke early, exhausted from nightmares and fears. There were footsteps in chainmail marching outside her door and she quickly dressed to see how far along the preparations were. She opened the door and came face to face with Lancelot’s fist, raised to knock. He lowered his hand and smiled. Gwen resolutely ignored the flutter in her belly at the sight of him. 

“Gwen, Leon has the army ready to march out. He would like to speak with you.” 

“Of course.” 

He offered her his arm and there was no impropriety in accepting, so she did and allowed him to lead her to the gate. They passed through the streets where men had gathered and been arranged in companies. Women and children were standing in doorways, holding on to each other, worry etched on their faces. The cobbles were strewn with flowers for the soldiers and some men were still hugging their wives, brothers, sisters, parents and children goodbye. Gwen had never seen war like this in her life time. 

“Are these all the men Camelot has?” She asked Lancelot. There weren’t many and she couldn’t imagine that a force with as few soldiers, and even fewer properly trained footmen, as this could hope to defeat the vast armies of Mercia. 

“Leon has received word from the lords loyal to Camelot. They will be adding their own force to the army before we meet with Mercia. There will be many more.” 

She looked at the faces of the men and wanted to sigh. There would be many more to die for Camelot. How many men would see their families again and how many families would sit at the hearth and wait in vain for their men to return? How many crops would be destroyed while the battle raged and how many fields would be harvested too soon because the armies needed _something_ to eat? How many families would go hungry this winter? How many families would have no home to go back to? How many families would lose their livestock, their only means of making ends meet? How many people would lie dead in the fields, or would be burned quickly, without even a proper burial or memorial to give their spirits rest? 

Gwen had experienced Camelot under siege, but she’d never felt the harsh and bitter bite of a long campaign; of distant war casting a far-reaching shadow. She shivered and pressed closer to Lancelot; instinctively searching for some small comfort. He covered her hand, resting in the crook of his elbow, with his own and gave a reassuring smile. 

“Camelot will be safe, I promise Gwen.” 

At the gate, Percival was holding on to the reins of his horse while he listened to Leon. Elyan, who was standing beside him, saw both Gwen and Lancelot coming from behind Leon’s shoulders and nodded in their direction. Leon turned around to look and smiled, beckoned them to come closer. 

“Gwen.” 

“Elyan.” 

She squeezed her brother close, and didn’t say anything else. He hadn’t come to stay at their old home the previous night, probably because he was too busy helping the army. Still, she wished he’d come so they could have had one last, peaceful night together before he left her for the unknown. She’d lived without him for so long and she was sure she could do it again, but she’d prefer to have him home, safe and alive. 

“Take care my friend.” 

Gwen turned her head, resting it on Elyan’s shoulder, to see Lancelot offer Percival his arm. Percival took it, with a puzzled expression on his face. 

“You are not coming to the battle?” 

“I’m leaving an adequate force behind to protect the city, just in case,” Leon intervened. “I’m leaving Lancelot in charge.” 

Lancelot smiled sheepishly and dropped his arm. “I’m sorry not to come and watch your back.” 

Leon shook his head. “I need to leave someone I can trust behind, someone who can rally troops, someone the people will have faith in. You fit that description admirably, my friend. Whatever may happen, the city cannot fall. Do you understand? The city must not fall.” 

Lancelot nodded. “I will do all that is necessary.” 

“I trust that you will.” Leon clapped him on the shoulder. 

Percival nodded and grabbed Lancelot’s shoulder, pulling him into a close embrace. “We put Camelot’s safety in your hands.” 

Eventually, Percival and Elyan were called to the front of the gate and they calmly walked off, side by side, holding the reins of their horses. Gwen turned back to Leon and was surprised. He looked taller and somehow, broader, in his chainmail and light plate. He looked confident, smiling, trying to keep up the morale even while people were whispering anxious questions: _where is prince Arthur? Where is the king?_

“You seem ready to head out soon,” Gwen said. 

Leon nodded. “We’re just waiting on the last of the carts to be loaded with supplies. We’ll be leaving within the hour.” 

Gwen looked back over the assembled men and women, children peeking out from behind their mother’s skirts. Young women like herself were standing in doorways, watching the proceedings with hooded eyes. The city would seem empty after the army left; so dreadfully empty. 

“Gwen, we will be passing several towns on the way to the battlefield. I will be sending all of the people there back to Camelot with provisions, just as a precaution in case we need to make a retreat. We don’t want to put any more lives at risk than we need to. Someone will need to make sure that they have shelter, a place to stay and enough food until they can return to their homes. I trust that I can leave them in your care?” 

She smiled. “Of course, anything I can do.” 

Leon smiled. “Thank you, Gwen. I’m sure that I leave the people of Camelot in the most capable and gentle of hands. Arthur would be proud.” 

She blushed and looked at her feet; unsure of how to respond to such praise. “Thank you, Leon. You’re very kind.” 

“It is merely the truth,” Leon said, while resting a gentle hand on her shoulder, and his eyes flickered at Lancelot, caught the other knight’s gaze and held for a few seconds. “Arthur would trust his kingdom to you, in the future, and so will I.” He looked at someone approaching from behind them. 

“Ah Neville, I trust that everything is ready?” 

The young squire nodded. 

“Very well.” He signaled to Percival and Elyan, who mounted their horses and urged them forward into a walk. With a large groan, the whole army started moving, slowly marching out of the gates. Leon watched the young men, looked at their faces. The noise wasn’t ear deafening, but the sound of many feet and hooves on the cobbles, of voices crying out final goodbyes and finally, of the carts groaning and tumbling past, drowned out the rest of the quiet conversation. 

“There is no news of Arthur yet,” Leon said. 

Gwen’s shoulders drooped, but she kept up a brave face. “Merlin will send word soon enough. I trust him.” 

Leon nodded. “So do I, but the longer Arthur is missing, the worse the situation will get. We must be prepared for the worst.” He turned to Lancelot. “If it seems that we cannot hold the battle, I will send word to prepare for a siege. Camelot can withstand an assault for many months if need be and we must trust that Merlin will find Arthur, however long that may take. The Outer Town will need to gather within the walls and the tunnels underneath the city will need to be watched closely. If the worst should come, abandon the Upper and Lower Town and shut everyone up in the Citadel.” 

Lancelot nodded, his face grave and Gwen tried to suppress the fear curling like a snake in her belly. They watched the army clear out silently and then Leon mounted his horse, gave them both a serious nod and rode out, past the footmen to catch up with Percival and Elyan at the front. Gwen wished she could stay and watch until they all disappeared behind the horizon, but there were things to do and she could not dally in the streets all day. 

She and Lancelot parted, he to arrange the guard roster and she to see Gaius. The old physician was checking vials and writing down a list of ingredients he’d need for salves and potions against infections and injuries. There probably would not be enough for everyone, but he had to make as much as he could while he could still go out and collect the herbs in the forest. 

“You should take some men with you, just in case.” 

“I doubt I’d need protection in these woods, Gwen.” 

She looked at him sadly. “Please, Gaius, just to be safe. Merlin would never forgive me if he came back and found you gone.” 

“Very well.” 

She left him to his potions and his promise and went down to the Lower Town. She carefully went door to door with parchment and pencil to make a list of whoever could and would take in evacuees and fugitives. Many people were willing, ready to do their part in whatever small way they could and; those who couldn’t afford extra mouths to feed, even with appointed rations, donated a candle or a blanket to the cause: anything that could be spared. Going through the Lower Town took all day and most of the night, when people were placing fires and candles at every window, a guide for fugitives of war to find their way to the capital. 

At three o’clock in the morning, she ran into Lancelot, who had taken up part of the night rotation of guards. He frowned when he saw her. 

“Gwen, you should not be up so late.” 

Gwen fiddled with the parchments in her hand, so that she didn’t have to look into his eyes. “There is so much to do. I cannot go to bed yet.”

He didn’t say anything and she looked up, but his gaze and the feeling it woke in her belly frightened her and she looked away. He laid his hand on her shoulders. “You do so much, Gwen. Your kindness knows no bounds. But please, do not task yourself too harshly. You must take care of yourself.” 

She looked up and smiled to banish the feeling of his touch as she stepped away from him. “I will, thank you for your concern.” 

He blinked and stepped back as well. “Of course, Gwen.” And he watched as she hurried away from him.

In the morning, Gwen went round the Upper Town to do the same and in the afternoon, the people from the first town started to arrive. They came in groups; whole families carrying blankets and food. Some had taken their livestock with them and Gwen helped them find a place to keep them in the Outer Town. It was a tight fit, especially because there were still so many people there from the tournament; a happy time that felt more than a lifetime ago. Most of the knights had offered their swords in defense of the city, but the knights of Ban and Carleon had been dutybound to return to their own king. Sir Lamorak and Sir Cai could be seen patrolling the ramparts of the city and red-haired Amadis de Gaule was going round houses, assuring people that he and the knights of Camelot would fight for their protection if worst came to worst. When Gwen went to check on the great hall, there was the Lady Elena, helping a few maids arrange bedding on the long tables to make for make-shift hospital beds. 

“My lady,” Gwen greeted with a courtesy. 

“Gwen,” Elena said, a small smile on her face. “Please, call me Elena. I fear that in a short while, we won’t have time for pleasantries and formalities.” 

Gwen nodded and helped Elena arrange the blanket. “You’re right. The wounded will start arriving tomorrow.”

Elena nodded and straightened, casting her glance over the room and then her cool eyes turned back to Gwen. “How are the refugees doing?” 

“Well, I think. Most of them are settled, but more are arriving by the hour. I’ve left instructions, for who should go where, but I should go check on them.” 

Elena frowned. “Nonsense, you look dead on your feat. Come.” She took Gwen’s arm and lead her into a small ante chamber. A light meal of soup and bread and two apples had been prepared. “You must share this food with me.” She urged Gwen to sit down and did the same. “And, so we are not in danger of being useless.” She took a bundle of old linens gathered on the floor in her lap and gave a sheet to Gwen, to rip into long strips for bandages. 

“Thank you, Elena. I was hungrier than I imagined.” 

Elena smiled. “I thought you might be.” 

“May I ask you a question?” 

“Of course.” Elena took a bite of her apple. 

“I had thought that you and your father would have left for your own lands by now, instead of being caught up in a war with Camelot.” 

Elena’s eyes twinkled. “That’s not really a question.” 

Gwen blushed.

Elena laughed. “Not to worry, I’ll answer you anyway. Father wished to stay behind, because he is such close friends with the king. He wanted me to go back home, but I couldn’t, not while there was anything I could do here that would be helpful. Now, may I ask you a question?” 

Gwen nodded quickly, nearly dropping her spoon in the process. “Of course, anything.” 

“Will you tell me what has happened to Arthur?” 

There was a pause and Gwen looked at the floor. 

“Please, I know that he did not march out with the army and there are rumours that he is missing. I know you and Arthur are close, that he cares for you and he would have told you if he had gone anywhere.” 

Gwen bit her lip. 

“Gwen, I worry for the great warriors who have left Camelot in these last hours. If you could tell me even a small thing, it would be a great comfort to me to know.” 

“I cannot tell you anything that would comfort you, Elena.” Gwen said and reached out with one hand to clasp Elena’s hand. 

“So, the rumours are true? Arthur was taken out of the city?” 

Gwen didn’t reply, but she didn’t need to. They finished their meal in silence and while Gwen could tell that Elena was worried by the droop in her shoulders and the frown on her brow, there was nothing she could do to lift that worry, even if she had known its true cause. 

After the meal, Gwen went to check on the evacuees and found that everyone had settled in relatively comfortable and that the small family of three settled in her own home were warm and fed. She stood at the gate, looking out unto the plains and fields. The Outer Town was lit up with candles and fires, but the woods beyond were quiet. It seemed that the evacuees were done and some might arrive the next day or they might not. Lancelot came to stand next to her and in the darkness, she took his hand in her own because she was frightened and needed someone, anything to hold on to. He gripped her hand tightly and bumped his shoulders with her. They stood there until Gwen nearly swayed on her feet with exhaustion and she turned away, back to her own cottage for the last uninterrupted sleep she would have for quite some time. 

The following morning, the guards of the Citadel were going door to door, dispensing free food, pillows and blankets and were writing down names and places for Gaius to visit. Others were going past houses in the Upper Town, asking for donations of food, sheets or anything of use that might be spared. She spent the day helping Gaius finish salves and potions, ripping up sheets for bandages and standing on the battlements with Lancelot, looking into the night. The fourth day brought little relief, for now they could only wait. Both Lancelot and Elena looked tense whenever she checked in with them and the whole of Camelot seemed to be holding its breath before the storm. 

When night fell, the storm broke and carts filled with wounded poured into the city. There were no familiar faces amongst the wounded, but that didn’t stop Gwen from shedding tears when she pulled a sheet over a young’s man face as if she could hide his death from the world. They all did what they could, but the only fully skilled physician was Gaius and while the midwife and the healer quack from the Lower Town were summoned as well, there was only so much that they could do. At midnight, Elena’s hands were covered in blood while she bandaged a soldier’s arm wound and told him he was lucky. Gwen stood, quiet and hiding the tremble in her limbs, holding a hot poker when the guards held down a screaming squire because she needed to cauterize the stomp of his severed foot. 

To Be Continued…


	4. Chapter 4

The first day’s march proceeded without incident. Leon was tense all day, expecting an ambush: a force hidden in the forest to jump at him, kill all the men and leave Camelot unprotected. But they passed two towns and told the villagers to leave for Camelot in the morning, to only take what they could carry because war was coming. Eventually they camped a little west of Vortigern’s Keep; where Uther’s brother took his last stand against the conquering force of the true king of Camelot. He did not allow the men to set up their tents, but ordered them all to light small fires to cook their dinner, lay down on their bedroll and sleep unless they had a part in the watch.

A full moon, or close enough to it, gave enough light to see by, so Leon ordered the fires to be doused after cooking, to prevent any Mercian scouts to find their encampment from a distance. The camp remained silent, mostly, there were some men murmuring quietly to each other and they sounded like the buzzing of insects. Leon did not order them silent. If he could, he’d let them have drink and merriment too, because no one knew what the morning would bring and not all the men whispering in the grass would return home. 

Elyan was staring at the sky. He’d laid out his bedroll an hour earlier and had listened to the sounds of the camp settling down. Percival was patrolling around the perimeter and Leon was studying a map by the light of the smoldering remains of the fire. His fingers traced the route the Mercian army had taken over the river to reach Ampthill. Scouts reported that since then the Mercian force had retreated behind the river Thaus. The river was difficult to cross and gave them the advantage if they wanted to retreat, but they _hadn’t_. They’d just made camp there. It left them in a defendable position, but not in a position to attack. However, there were fords near Cadarn Afon on both Thaus and Mosoon. Armies should have no problem crossing there. It was possible that Mercia was simply waiting for Camelot’s army to arrive, to be able to gage their strength before engaging in combat. But if they’d already reached Ampthill, it would have been more sensible for them to move to the forest surrounding Camelot and meet them there. It would bring them closer to Camelot to lay siege to the city if they managed to fight off the army. Of course, fighting so close to the city would give Camelot’s army a defendable keep to retreat to, whilst here in the wilderness, any man surviving a battle could be run down and killed, leaving no force to regroup or regain their strength. 

Leon frowned at the map. 

“You’re worrying too much,” Elyan said, his eyes cast downward, to gaze at Leon with half-lidded eyes. “We know Mercia retreated to the Northern bank of the Thaus. We will meet them there tomorrow; there is nothing you can do.” 

Leon sighed and allowed the map to roll itself up instead of keeping the ends firmly stretched out. “I know, but the retreat puzzles me. I keep wondering what Arthur would do, if he were here.” 

“Doubtless, he would be brooding, just like you.” 

Leon gave a single chuckle. “I suppose.” 

He turned on his back, but the night sky offered no answers, only the moon, that far away was shining both on Merlin and Gwaine in the mountains and the city of Camelot, bathing in a sea of candles. 

“I wish there was more I could do,” Leon said, but the stars didn’t answer him. 

The morning came, the sun was bright, but the battlefield would be facing north and she would not shine in their eyes, Leon thought while they made up camp. He met with a few captains leading the forces who had just arrived at Vortigern’s Keep, the meeting place for the men that all the lords of the land owed their king. He gazed at the gathered troops and frowned, because there were not enough. 

“Where are the men promised by Lord Aethelred? And Lord Vigan? None of the Southern lords have sent any men.” 

One of the captains cleared his throat. “Sir Leon…” He seemed to hesitate. 

“Spit it out, man!” 

“A messenger came amongst us not too long ago, with a letter from the Southern lords.” He handed it over. 

Leon read it quickly and it was only years living at court that stopped him from betraying its content by frowning or shouting in frustration. “Thank you. Gather your men, we march within the hour.” 

He walked away and made sure that the camp packed up completely before they left. They would reach Ampthill within half a day’s march and there is where Leon would settle the army. He’d request a parlay with Bayard as soon as possible. Hopefully, a simple display of Camelot’s strength and a firm reminder of the treaty and what the consequences would be if it were broken would be enough and Bayard would march back home. Leon was certain he hoped in vain, but tradition demanded that they parlay first. 

“Everything alright?” Percival asked two hours into the march. 

Leon nodded. “Everything’s fine.” 

He was holding the reins of his horse loosely, allowing the beast to determine the pace. They had marched swiftly for two hours, but the carts in the back were lagging and they needed to catch up lest they be attacked in the rear with no adequate force to protect them, thus leaving the army stranded with no supplies. 

“Your face looks like a thunderstorm,” Elyan said. “I nearly expect it to start raining.” 

Leon smiled in spite of himself.

“That’s better,” Percival said. “Now, tell us what has you so worried.” 

“None of the Southern lords have sent men,” Leon bit out, angry and frustrated again. 

“I always thought Camelot would have a larger force,” Elyan said, turning in his seat to look back at the marching men. “How come?” 

Leon sighed. “I sent the summons in the name of the council and myself, not in Arthur’s name. They claim I’m using Uther’s weak health and the coming war to further my own agenda. They claim I’m trying to usurp the throne. They will not send men until Arthur writes to them himself.” He kept his voice deliberately low so no one behind them could hear, but it was difficult when all he wanted to do was shout. 

First Arthur went missing, then Bayard showed up and now none of the Southern lords wanted to support Camelot’s army in the war. There was too much coincidence there for his comfort and Leon did not like it when the threat to Camelot was not easy to identify. He was not a man built for politics and trickery. He preferred straight-forward, honest battle and all these coincidences pointed to the fact that this was anything but a straight-forward, honest battle. He took a deep breath to calm himself. All he needed to do was hold Camelot’s defense until Merlin had found Arthur. Arthur would rally the men, would rally the Southern lords and because he was prince of Camelot, heir to the throne, he could bully Bayard far more effectively then Leon could. Leon was just a knight, of a noble house, yes, and the lands of his family were plentiful, but they were small and in the heart of Camelot. Strategically they meant nothing at all and so the Conways were respected, but a humble and lower house. Leon had fought his way to Captain of the Guard through merit not through name. What standing could he hold over a king? 

“What?” Percival seemed genuinely outraged on his behalf. It never failed to make Leon grateful for Arthur’s judgment, as his commoner-knights were far more honourable than some of the nobility Leon has had the misfortune of meeting. “How can they question your loyalty like that? You have always been one of Arthur’s most trusted knights.” 

“Which, according to them, puts me in the best possible position to betray him successfully,” Leon pointed out. “It doesn’t matter what they say about me, it’s just an excuse. The summons called them to Vortigorn’s Keep, so the threat to Camelot is obviously in the North. Why should they bother risking their men when their lands are not at stake? They can get away with ignoring a summons from the council and the Captain of the Guard. Officially, Uther is still king. If Camelot is truly in danger, surely he would send a message himself? Or Arthur would?” 

“They don’t want to risk the men,” Elyan realized. “And they don’t want to risk incurring the wrath of Mercia, should they win the battle and conquer Camelot. However, if they did nothing, Bayard might let them keep their lands and their titles.”

Percival frowned. “Do you think they know? That Arthur is missing?” 

Leon shrugged. “If they know it or not is of little consequence. Arthur didn’t send the message and that would be enough to tell them that something is wrong. They could just be taking the chance to remind Uther where his power lies; in the men loyal lords provide.” 

“But what if they are in league with whoever took Arthur?” Elyan asked. 

“I doubt they’d openly support Mercia, even if they were. There is nothing we can do for now, except trust in Merlin.” 

They continued the rest of the march in silence and within the hour they picked up the pace again. They managed to reach Ampthill by midday and if the army had not already been silent, surely they would have been shocked into being so. All that was left of the little cottages were burned remains, blackened wood and grass. The crops were all destroyed; burned and trampled. Not a living soul resided in the place and Leon wondered how many had made it out alive to surrounding villages, the woods, open fields and how many had been hunted down, raped, burned in their houses, slaughtered in front of their children. His fingers tightened into fists around the reins of his horse. He’d hoped that there would be enough of the village left to bivouac some of the men and make camp, but Leon did not wish to let his men linger here and lose all hope before the battle had even begun. 

However, he had little choice in the matter. The position of the village was ideal, marching further would take them too far away from the point of probable engagement and marching back would tire the men for no reason. He sighed. It was one thing after another. If Leon believed in ill omens, he would seriously consider sending a message to Camelot to prepare them for a siege, for there was no way they could hold the lines here. 

“Elyan,” Leon addressed the other knight. “Take an assortment of men and start clearing the rubbish from the village. Percival, order the men to pitch their tents and then gather for inspection. We will distribute food after we’ve settled.” 

The knights led their horses to the sturdiest looking blackened beam and secured them before going off to do their bidding. Leon made sure to supervise, but the sergeants in charge knew how to make a camp and required little of his assistance. Instead, he took a company to secure a picket line and patrolled it, giving orders for guards to be relieved and replaced and then continued on to help with picketing the tents and settling the horses. Midday had progressed far and they’d managed to settle camp and distribute food to the army when a messenger, dressed in the blue colours of Mercia and carrying a white banner on a standard, approached. Leon had expected to be the one to send out a messenger for parlay. He had not expected a request to reach him first. 

“My name is Cenwig of the house of Maros. I have been sent by King Bayard to request a parlay with Arthur Pendragon,” the messenger said. His blue eyes were narrowed slightly. 

Leon resisted the urge to frown. “Prince Arthur has not marched with the army. I am commanding this force.” 

The messenger smiled and Leon knew that if he had been that messenger, he would either have been unable to help his surprise or be discomfited to bring this news to his master. The smug, superior, knowing smile worried him more than he wanted to admit. 

“In which case,” the messenger answered. “I am sure that my king would consent to parlay with you.” 

Leon gritted his teeth. As if he had sent out a messenger and begged for an audience. The king would graciously parlay with someone from as low a noble house as the Conways. He kept his face neutral. 

“That would be gracious of your king. I am sure that prince Arthur and king Uther would appreciate your king’s good manners. After all, parlay before battle is tradition, is it not?” Leon said, smiling himself. 

The messenger’s smile had turned sour. “Good manners indeed,” he said and bowed, mockingly. Leon wanted to punch him in his smug face. “My king has suggested the neutral ground of Cadarn Afon, as it lies between our camps. Two hours hence, will that suit you?” 

In two hours there would still be plenty of daylight for a time, just in case. Leon nodded. “Tell your king I look forward to speak with him on the good terms that the treaty between our two kingdoms demands.” 

Cenwig’s forehead frowned slightly, but quickly smoothed over again. “I shall. Good day to you, Leon of Conway.” 

They bowed as low as possible, barely a terse nod of the head, and then Cenwig of Maros mounted his horse and rode off. Leon watched him go. There was, in itself, nothing suspicious or wrong with one party asking the other for parlay during, before, or after a battle. It was the way treaties were made, wars were ended and kingdoms either made poor or rich. But Bayard had attacked without any warning and now that the army had arrived he wanted to parlay instead of launching a sneak attack? Leon frowned; it seemed out of character. 

“So, parlay in two hours?” Elyan said.

Leon nodded, but didn’t say anything, mind already whirring. He needed to speak with Neville. The boy listened carefully and nodded in an attempt to look confident, but Leon could see that he had his doubts. That was fine; Leon had had his own doubts at that age. He had been afraid and worried that his own skill was not sufficient, would never be sufficient for either battle or tournament. He went over the lay-out of the camp and studied the map of the surrounding area in his tent. He had Neville check his armour and sharpen his sword again, just in case, and brushed down his horse himself to calm down. His nerves were not nearly as steady as he would like them to be, but he was all Camelot had in this hour and he would do what he must. 

In two hours he was ready. He, along with Percival and several other knights left for Cadarn Afon. Elyan stayed behind to command the troops in Leon’s absence. It was not difficult to cross the river at the ford to Cadarn Afon. The water was shallow and barely splashed over the horse’s hooves. The Mercian party was already there, the blue and bronze colours waving in the breeze. King Bayard was on a great, black stallion and several of his knights, including the smarmy messenger Cenwig of Maros, were gathered on horses around him. When they saw the Camelot party approach, they dismounted. 

“Leon of Conway,” Bayard held out his hand. 

Leon shook it and gave a small bow. “My lord Bayard.” 

The king smiled and the hairs on the back of Leon’s neck stood straight up. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. 

“I shall get straight to the point, shall I?” the king said, still smiling. “I have invaded Camelot, which goes against my treaty with Uther, I am aware. But, as I am sure _he_ is aware, the kingdom of Mercia has always had an ancient claim to these lands.” He gestured to the lands behind him. “It is time, I believe, for Mercia to re-establish her ancient and natural border to Camelot, as that being the river Thaus.” 

Leon resisted the urge to raise his eyebrows. It had been a sore point between Bayard and Uther that Uther had refused, time and again, to relinquish the lands beyond Thaus to Mercia while Bayard claimed that the river was a natural and traditional border between their two countries. Leon knew this; he had been present at some of the meetings when they’d re-drafted the treaty almost four years ago. There had been no provocation, no reason at all, for Bayard to press his suit again now, of all times; now that Arthur was missing. 

“My lord, I am sure you know that king Uther has always maintained his claim on the lands beyond Thaus. I do not even need to consult with my king to know what his answer would be. You have violated the terms of the treaty and you must leave Camelot immediately.” 

King Bayard smiled again and raised his hand. “Very well, I knew what your answer would be.” When he lowered his hand, a rain of arrows descended upon them and Leon had barely enough time to raise his sword in defense against the sword bearing down upon him.

To Be Continued….


	5. Chapter 5

It was dark and cloudy; excellent weather for Gwaine and Merlin to go unnoticed as they silently commanded the little boat that took people from and to the isle. The water was dark and rocked the boat more violently than the last time Merlin used it, almost four years ago now. He shivered when the wind cut through his coat, but didn’t say anything. There wasn’t any real place to land the boat, the edges of the isle contained only walls, high enough that Merlin had to crane his neck back if he wanted to see the top of them. There was no steering the boat either; it did what it wanted and eventually floated up to a small doorway. Merlin stood cautiously, afraid to rock the boat too much, and forced the wooden door open, stepped out and into a stone corridor. It was not the same place where the boat had let him off the last time. Gwaine quietly stepped into the doorway next to him. They watched the little boat sail away. 

“How are we going to get back?” Gwaine’s soft voice sounded loud in this forsaken place. 

Merlin shivered and thought about blowing hot breath on his hands. “I don’t know.” 

They moved forward quietly. The corridor was dark and silent, although Merlin was convinced that Morgana could hear the pounding of his heart coming closer and closer. The isle held no allegiance to anyone. It was a place for all the children of magic and it wouldn’t betray Merlin to Morgana, but he didn’t know what spells she had to guard the place. She might be waiting for them at the end of the corridor. It didn’t matter, the only way was forward, behind them was the lake and Merlin was certain that no one would ever be able to swim those icy depths. He trailed his hands over the walls, because he couldn’t see anything in the darkness. Behind him, he could hear Gwaine breathing quietly. 

He nearly stumbled on the first step of what appeared to be a staircase leading up and so they followed it. Gwaine had one hand on the wall, the other on his sword and Merlin was using both hands to keep his balance and feel his way. It felt like they were climbing forever, until Merlin’s outstretched hands encountered a door. 

“Gwaine.” His whisper cut through the darkness. 

“Yeah?” 

“There’s a door here.” 

“Can you open it?” 

Merlin gave it a little nudge and it seemed to give readily enough. “I think so. I have no idea what’s on the other side.” 

There was a small clinking noise as Gwaine pulled his sword loose. The blade winked out over the edge of the scabbard, ready to be drawn completely. “I’m ready.” 

Merlin carefully nudged the door open and stepped out into a deserted courtyard. There were only shadows waiting for them. Merlin shivered again and balled his hands into fists. 

“Where to now?” Gwaine asked softly as they stood there, looking out into the courtyard, silent, dark walls surrounding them and only shadow and night to fill the sky. 

Merlin shook his head and bit his lip; he did not know. He wanted to shout Arthur’s name, but he couldn’t risk betraying their presence. If Morgana did not yet know that they had arrived, they could act with the element of surprise. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His magic did not always need incantations, sometimes it just acted out its own. 

_Let this be one of those times_ Merlin prayed. _Show me where Arthur is._

For a second he could see Arthur and his breath caught in this throat. There were candles everywhere, bathing Arthur in a gold light. He was on his knees, head hanging, only the blond of his hair visible; brown with sweat. His back was … _His back was…_ Merlin looked away from the horror into the air and saw the tower, right behind Arthur’s shoulders; tall and stately but crumbling with age and neglect. When the vision faded, he could still see that tower, covered in shadows. 

He took a deep breath and pointed. “That way.” 

They silently crossed the courtyard and staying close to the wall, they circled the tower. In the edges of the shadows, they could see the glow of candles and Merlin didn’t want to look, didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help himself and his eyes fell on the blood-covered back. He shivered. Deep gauges of bloody red streaked Arthur’s back; the skin ripped away. Blood had trickled down and seeped into the edge of his trousers, soaking it in Arthur’s own blood. The nape of his neck was also covered in blood; golden hair turned red and pink. His arms had been tied behind his back and Merlin could see the strain in his muscles. One shoulder looked like it had been wrenched out of its socket. Merlin bit his lip to stop himself from making any noise and he could hear the sharp intake of breath from Gwaine next to him. 

Morgana stood over him, a whip in one hand and the other raised until she brought it down and slapped Arthur in the face. The blow was strong enough and Arthur was weakened enough and he fell sideways in the grass, but did not make a sound. Morgana’s face was warmed by the glow of the candles. Her hair was pulled back and her black dress hugged her every curve. Merlin could see the blue of her eyes, the cut of her cheekbones, the high, smooth brow and strong, bow-like mouth. Two roses bloomed a blushing red over her cheeks. She had never seemed more beautiful, never more terrible and powerful, standing over her bloodied brother. She raised the whip again and flicked it over Arthur’s shoulder. This time, a pained cry rang out and Merlin instinctively stepped forward, only to be dragged back by Gwaine. 

“No,” the whisper was furious but soft, almost too soft for Merlin to hear. “We need a plan. We don’t know how powerful she is, Merlin. Calm down.” 

He tried, the gods know he tried but when Arthur cried out again, he couldn’t just stand there. “Grab Arthur, I’ll take care of this.” 

“Grab him and go where?” Gwaine asked, but it was already too late. 

In one breath, Morgana was flung back against the stone wall behind her and all the candles were blown out. Gwaine cursed and followed Merlin as they ran across the grass. He let Merlin deal with Morgana and quickly kneeled by Arthur’s side. Arthur was still lying on the grass and when Gwaine carefully touched his right shoulder, torn and bruised but luckily not out of its socket as Gwaine had first feared, Arthur’s eyes blinked open. 

“Gwaine,” Arthur said and his smile was filled with bloody teeth. “You came.” 

Gwaine pulled a dagger out of his boot and started cutting Arthur’s ties. “Of course we did. You don’t think Merlin was just going to leave you?” 

Arthur blinked and Gwaine did not like the glassy looks in those eyes. “M’rlin’s here?” He coughed again and more blood came up and that could not be good. Arthur tried to raise himself off the ground and Gwaine tried to help him, but Arthur was dead weight and his muscles couldn’t cooperate and he simply fell back to the ground with a pained cry. He raised his head and tried to look for Merlin, because Merlin was there, he had come, Gwaine had said so and of course Merlin would come, Merlin… 

Gwaine gritted his teeth and heaved Arthur onto his back until Arthur’s arms were dangling over his shoulders and Gwaine could get his hands beneath Arthur’s knees. Now he only needed to know where to run to and they could get out of here. 

“Merlin!” he shouted and he didn’t notice Arthur’s raising his head slightly, trying to blink away the blood that was now trickling down from his scalp into his eyes. 

His only answer was thunder and a scream. 

“Emrys! I know it’s you, Emrys! I have seen you in my dreams. I won’t let you get me, Emrys! I’ll get you first.” 

A stream of blue fire erupted from the shadows and nearly singed Merlin’s clothes, but he ducked out of the way quickly enough and summoned another gust of wind to knock Morgana to the ground. She screamed again; enraged and hysterical and her flailing hand sent a searing heat through his chest. He fell back to the ground and gritted his teeth, trying to breathe through the pain. 

“I will kill you!” Her scream cut through the air and Merlin had to get up, had to get up because if he didn’t then she’d kill him and then kill Arthur and the world couldn’t go on without Arthur, not without Arthur, not without Arthur. 

Thunder crackled through the air and lightning struck the ground. Morgana screamed. Another fork of lightning cut through the clouds and by its light, Merlin could see that Gwaine had heaved Arthur unto his back and was clearly trying to decide which way to go. 

“Gwaine!” 

The knight looked up at him and Merlin got to his feet. He motioned for Gwaine to follow and then another crack of lightening hit the ground near to where Morgana was standing. She flinched back, but this time, she saw him. She saw his face. Her own contorted, horror and rage curdling the flesh on her bones, twisting her lips and her mouth opened in a snarl. 

“You!” Merlin stumbled back as she lunged. “You are Emrys!” 

They fell to the ground together and he could hear her mad laughter ringing in his ears. The fall knocked the breath out of him and he was still desperately struggling for air when she straddled his hips between her thighs and her fingers closed around his throat. Through his blurring vision, he could see her, a monstrous beauty in the white of her teeth and the glow in her eyes. She squeezed and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. 

“I will kill you, Emrys, Merlin, whatever name you go by.” Her voice was a hiss in his ear. “I will kill you and then I will kill your precious Arthur and Gwaine, well, Gwaine will serve some purpose, I’m sure.” She ground her hips down against his and he gasped for air. 

Merlin’s hand skittered over the grass, trying to find purchase in something, but there was nothing and he was running out of the air. Lightning struck near his face, but Morgana didn’t flinch, not this time, not when she was so close. 

“Let him go.” 

Morgana stiffened and her grip slackened enough that Merlin could draw breath again. A sword was carefully held up against the fragile skin of Morgana’s throat and she hissed when its pressure forced her to move back, off Merlin, or risk getting her throat cut. Merlin scrambled from between her legs; away. Morgana hissed, but Gwaine didn’t take his eyes of her. 

“What do we do with her?” 

Merlin blinked. “I…” 

“Do we kill her?” Gwaine asked. 

Merlin could almost see the thoughts tumbling around in Morgana’s head as she desperately tried to come up with something to get out of this. Should he kill her? Should he end it once and for all? He should, shouldn’t he? He turned to look at Gwaine and said: “I-“

The minute he looked away, she struck. She dove beneath the swing of the sword and fire sprang up in the grass around them. The light of the fire blinded them and she disappeared into the shadows. Her wicked laughter seemed to come from everywhere at once. 

“Get Arthur!” Merlin said and looked wildly around, tried to pinpoint where she was standing, mocking them. 

Gwaine quickly sheathed his sword and again hoisted Arthur up unto his shoulders from where he’d dropped the prince on the grass. Merlin turned to look up into the sky, into the clouds. He ignored the heat from the fire and instead of thought of rain. He thought of its freezing cold, the water pelting from the heavens. He could almost see it as his eyes fluttered close. 

_Let there be rain._

The first drop was almost gentle on his face, the second like a kiss and the third brought whole sheets of icy floods with it. He opened his eyes and saw that the fire was being doused. He could hear Morgana scream. 

“No!”

He didn’t even turn to the sound of her voice as he ran, Gwaine close behind him, but he could still see her, as if she was a piece of glass separating him from the rest of the world. She stretched out her hand and her eyes glowed red but instead of a spell catching them in the back, a fork of lighting crashed into the ground in front of her. The vision was gone with his next blink and this time he didn’t care what had happened to her. Her scream was the last he knew of her as he led Gwaine into a corridor, down several stairs, up another and suddenly, through a large archway, where a small boat was waiting for them in the water. 

“Quickly, in the boat!” 

“Easy for you to say! You’re not carrying a two hundred pound princeling on your back!” Gwaine shouted back, but he gently lowered Arthur into the boat while Merlin’s eyes darted frantically at the archway behind them, the passage way beyond. But all was silent and still; he could only hear the patter of the rain against the stones. Gwaine stepped into the boat and so did Merlin, holding his breath, still looking at the crumbling ruins as the boat quietly and smoothly sailed to the shore. The rain came down softly now and finally, when the mists were crowding between him and Morgana, he turned to look at Arthur. 

The sight made something hot and wet prickle behind his eyes and he reached out with a shaking hand to cup the back of Arthur’s head. Arthur’s hair was soaked completely now, to a dull brown colour. His face was deathly pale and there was a cut on his forehead. Merlin took a deep breath and looked Gwaine in the eyes. “Help me turn him over.” 

Carefully, Gwaine grabbed his shoulders while Merlin took hold of Arthur’s hips and together they moved him unto his belly in the cramped space of the boat. 

“Dear Gods,” Gwaine breathed and his hand clenched unwillingly into a fist. 

The rain had washed away most of the blood and although the wounds were still bleeding, the downpour was fast enough to make the wounds clearly visible. One deep cut stretched its way from Arthur’s right shoulder to the small of his back and the rest of it was one giant mesh of deep cuts and welts. It seemed as if Morgana had tried to whip him to death. Merlin took off the brown coat and used the light jacket he was wearing underneath to try and staunch the bloodflow. He tied the sleeves around Arthur’s torso, right underneath his armpits and pressed the inside of the jacket against the wounds. The little boat finally docked at the little mooring place and they climbed out, carefully carrying Arthur between them. 

“We need to find a village, fast,” Merlin puffed, carefully pushing Arthur’s body belly-down over the horse’s back. He mounted the horse himself and carefully placed a hand on Arthur’s back to keep him in place. 

“We’ll jostle him in a gallop,” Gwaine said, mounting as well. 

Merlin bit his lip and then shook his head. “He needs help; a dry place to sleep and clean bandages. I have some herbs, but nothing to deal with injuries as severe as these.” He turned to look at the isle. “Besides, we need to get as far away as possible first.” 

Gwaine nodded and set off with Merlin close behind. He kept one hand on Arthur’s back at all times and prayed that the first village they stumbled across would have a healer. 

To Be Continued….


	6. Chapter 6

The village looked calm, peaceful and sleepy. It was barely morning and Merlin hoped, prayed that this little town, the only one they’d found so far, would have the help that they needed. They’d travelled all night, after the run from the Isle and in the morning they’d stopped next to the river. Merlin had used the water to carefully clean Arthur’s wounds and had spread a few herbs on the wounds, kept them pressed close by strapping on bandages, but Arthur needed a warm bed to rest in, potions to prevent infection from setting in, several herbs to encourage the blood to clot and so far Merlin hadn’t even managed to stop them from bleeding. 

They’d continued travelling all through the day, sticking close to the river, but they hadn’t come across anything so much as resembling a hamlet. They’d stumbled past what looked like an abandoned farm and had slept there for the night and now, only one hour after sunrise, they’d finally found a small, remote village. There were a dozen huts clustered together and one larger building that probably belonged to the town major. Several surrounding fields were filled with healthy looking crops and a little jetty, half collapsed, seemed to be used to collect water and do the washing in the river. 

“Seems like a nice place,” Gwaine said. They were both crouching down on the ground; hiding in the tall reeds next to the river bank. 

Merlin hummed an affirmative and looked back at the small clearing behind them, where Arthur was lying on his belly, his head cushioned on Merlin’s coat, the jacket still tied around him to cover the bandages. He looked vulnerable and Merlin had to take a deep breath to crush the painful tugging at his heart. 

“I’ll go in by myself.” Gwaine turned to look at Merlin. “You stay here, with Arthur.” 

Merlin hesitated. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Splitting up?”

“It’s better than walking in there with Arthur looking like that. It’ll be memorable, if anyone comes looking for us; the villagers will remember.” 

Merlin scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “Right and we can’t leave Arthur here by himself, in case anyone’s still looking for him.” 

Gwaine nodded. He looked exhausted and disgusting. There were deep circles under his eyes and his hair was droopy and greasy. They hadn’t washed in days and they smelled like it and their clothes were starting to crust with dirt and sweat. Gwaine’s typical stubble had grown into a scruffy beard and Merlin’s smooth cheeks were sporting a few whiskers too. Merlin didn’t even want to know what he looked like. They crept back to the clearing and stood, Merlin’s knees creaked and for a second he felt very, very old. He watched as Gwaine grabbed one of the bundles of his horse and hoisted it over his back. 

“I’ll walk back about a mile,” he pointed up the river, towards the Isle. “And cross at the ford there, then I’ll walk into the village.” 

“If you take the horse you’ll be quicker,” Merlin said. 

Gwaine shrugged. “Yes, but I’ll be memorable. I doubt they have a lot of horses pass by here. They’re looking for the two of us, on horseback , carrying a wounded Arthur. If anyone comes looking they won’t take notice of a traveler, by himself, on foot.” 

Merlin nodded again and sat down besides Arthur, one hand absently carding through his hair. Gwaine watched him for a bit and then sighed. “I’ll be as fast as I can.”

Merlin watched him go and then stood up again. He grabbed his canteen and crouched in the high grass, carefully crawling forward until he was hunched near the water and could fill the tin canister. He looked around to make sure no one had seen him and then carefully made his way back to the clearing. Arthur hadn’t moved. Merlin carefully peeled away the jacket and the bandages and used the water to clear away the crushed herbs and clean the wounds. They looked red and angry and felt hot to the touch, so did Arthur’s forehead. Merlin bit his lip and told himself that it was just because Arthur had been lying in the sun. It was _not_ a fever heat. 

He went through his pouch and gathered a few more herbs. They usually encouraged blood to clot, encouraged wounds to close, but Gaius only used them for minor wounds and Merlin didn’t know how good they’d be now. He decided not think about it and instead spread them over the wounds, used fresh bandages to press them together and then tied the jacket back over Arthur’s back. He wished that they’d thought to bring some spare clothes, but they had nothing to dress Arthur in.

He carefully sat down besides Arthur and lifted Arthur’s shoulders until he was lying in the crook of Merlin’s arm and Merlin could support his head and tip some water into this mouth. Arthur swallowed some of it reflexively, but most of it dribbled out of his mouth, down his chin, onto his chest and the ground and Merlin knew that was not good a good sign. Arthur coughed and struggled and tried to turn his head away, but he was so weak that he merely bumped his head very slightly against Merlin’s chin. 

“Careful, dollophead, you’ll hurt yourself.” 

He put the canteen down and rested Arthur’s head in his lap, carding his fingers through the gold hair. He took off his neckerchief, stuffed it into the canteen and shook it. He managed to pry the soaked cloth back out and pressed it against Arthur’s forehead, desperate to get his temperature down. 

“You’re going to be fine, you know.” His voice was just a mumble, but he was sure Arthur could hear him. “We’ll find a healer and when you recover, we’ll go back to Camelot. You’ll send Mercia packing and then we’ll have a great feast.” Arthur’s breathing was steady, but not as deep as Merlin would like it. “Gwaine said he’d like some veal. I’m sure you’d love that; go out and shoot some poor deer.” 

There was only silence and Merlin pressed his face against Arthur’s golden hair and told himself, very sternly, that crying wouldn’t do anyone any good. 

\--

Gwaine started to regret not taking the horse when he had to cross the ford. It was slightly deeper than he had anticipated and the water soaked into his trousers far past his knees. He had to take off his sword and scabbard and hold it over his head to prevent it getting wet. Grumbling, he reached the other bank, threw the sword on the shore and quickly ducked his head completely under water. If he was getting unreasonably wet, he might as well get a semi-wash from it anyway. Soaked to the bone and probably looking like a drowned rat, he walked ashore and gathered his sword, once more buckling the belt around his middle. 

The sun was shining and its rays beat down heavily on Gwaine’s shoulders. It would dry him fast enough and he set off into a brisk walk to the village. The path was dusty and he left muddy footprints behind until the dust was caked on too thickly. His clothes dripped until they just stuck to his skin uncomfortably and he took off his outer jacket and held it in one hand while he pulled at his shirt with the other, billowing the fabric and making a breeze cross his skin before allowing it to stick back to his chest with a loud “slap” sound. There were still wet spots on his trousers, but his shirt was completely dry when he reached the village. 

There was more activity now than when he and Merlin had quietly spied on the little town. A few women were tending to small vegetables gardens in their yards, some were carrying buckets to or from the river, others had washing in their hands, a few men were gathered in a small cluster near the only structure that could be called a building, talking quietly and no one seemed to take any notice of him. The town consisted of a few huts and the wide, low building seemed to be a blacksmith’s shop, but nothing else and Gwaine wondered briefly how people could possibly live without a tavern. They probably brewed their own moonshine. 

He calmly strolled over to where the men were talking in front of the blacksmith shop. They caught sight of him and he grinned and raised a hand. “Good day, gentlemen!” 

One of the men frowned, but nodded back. “Well met, stranger. What brings you to our fine village?” 

Gwaine managed to hide his wince at “stranger,” it didn’t bode well. “Just passing through. I’m on my way to the sea of Meredoc, hoping to catch a ship to the continent.”

It seemed to relax them somewhat and the man who’d spoken before smiled. “Many men are setting sail to the continent nowadays. My name is Tohin, I’m the village elder.” 

“It is good to meet you, Tohin. I am Peter.” They shook hands and Gwaine’s face was starting to hurt from his overly friendly smile. “I was hoping to purchase a meal somewhere and be on my way again.” 

Tohin smiled and motioned him towards one of the huts. “Brenda makes the best bread of the village, I’m sure she’d be willing to sell you a loaf, along with some cheese and apples.” 

“A meal fit for a king, I should think.” 

Tohin chuckled. “A smooth talker, I see. The young men shall be glad to see the back of you.” 

Gwaine bit back a retort and simply nodded. “So were the men in my own village. Tell me, is there a ship sailing soon?” 

“I believe there is one sailing on the morrow. There are rumours another one is travelling next week.” 

“How stupendous! Does the harbor have a physician, do you know?” 

They arrived at the hut and Tohin knocked on the frail wooden door. “Not that I know off. Are you ill, Peter?” 

Gwaine shrugged and smiled at the young woman who opened the door. She smiled. “Hello, Tohin, who is this?” 

“This is Peter, he is passing through. He was wondering if he could purchase some bread from you.” 

The woman motioned them in. “I have some bread and cheese to spare.” 

The inside of the hut was very simple, there was a partitioned off section at the back and a small fireplace at the side. There seemed to be a counter near the fireplace, with a few loose cabinets and shelves nailed to the wall above it. A rickety table and a few chairs were the only furniture. A grey-haired man, Brenda’s father, was sitting at the table, smoking a pipe, in the process of carving a wooden bowl. 

“It would be incredibly kind of you.” Gwaine said and was thankful for the small pouch of coin tucked away in his shirt. They haggled for a price and she wrapped a loaf and several thick slices of cheese into a bundle, chattering away at him while Gwaine vainly tried to listen in on the hushed conversation Tohin was having with Brenda’s father. “I don’t suppose you could tuck in anything stronger?” He asked her in a soft tone and she hid her grin behind her hand. 

She glanced at the two men, but Tohin’s back was turned and Brenda’s father was whispering furiously and wasn’t paying attention to them at all. She quickly grabbed a bottle filled with clear liquid from one of the shelves and tucked it into the small bundle. Gwaine quickly pressed another coin into her hand and winked. She blushed and turned away to hide her face. Gwaine stuffed the bundle into his own satchel. 

“All settled then?” 

They looked up at Tohin who was smiling, but Gwaine could tell that Tohin wanted him out of the village as fast as possible. Gwaine didn’t blame him, these were dangerous times and strangers couldn’t be trusted, especially in a small town like this. If this place had had a tavern with proper stables, Gwaine wouldn’t have stood out as much. 

“Yes, thank you so much for your hospitality.” He bowed slightly at Brenda and shook hands with her father and then Tohin quickly led him out of the hut. 

“You asked after a healer?” Tohin asked while he escorted Gwaine to the river’s edge. There was something cautious in the question that made the hairs on the back of Gwaine’s hair stand on end. 

“Yes, I’m having difficulty sleeping and the weariness is slowing me down. I was hoping a healer might give me a potion to help me sleep.” 

Tohin nodded thoughtfully and looked out over the river. Gwaine kept his anxiety down. It was pure coincidence that Tohin was gazing at the exact spot where Merlin and Gwaine had been spying on the village only two hours ago. 

“Yes, sleep is precious to the traveler,” Tohin said, his voice soft, clearly talking more to himself than to Gwaine. “The harbor has no healer, but there is one who lives not too far from here. She takes in people from all the surrounding villages.” 

“Really?”

Tohin nodded. “Yes, but her cottage is further inland, it would take you far off your travels. It seems too great an effort for a sleeping potion, does it not?” Tohin stared at him, his gaze too frank. 

Gwaine drew himself up. “I think that would be my decision to make.” 

Tohin snorted. “Yes, it would be so.” He looked Gwaine over again and Gwaine resisted the urge to rest his hand on his sword. “Strangers cannot be trusted.” Gwaine clenched his teeth. “I know not why you search for a healer.” 

Gwaine was tempted to say that he did not need a sleeping potion, but had worrying warts all over his cock just to shut Tohin up. 

“But, it is no matter. I advise you not to seek this healer unless it is of the upmost importance. She can be dangerous when angered. We only go to her when we fear someone might lose life or limb.” Gwaine did not answer and Tohin sighed. “Her cottage lies on the other side of the river. You must go south-east, halfway to the river of Gedref. Her cottage stands in a clearing a day’s walk from here, half a day if you have a horse.” 

Gwaine nodded and hefted the bundle higher on his shoulder. “Thank you.” He turned. 

“The mark of the Isle is on you,” Tohin said softly and Gwaine froze. “I know not why you went there, if you serve the priestess or the warlock, but the healer will know who you are. Do not attempt to deceive her; her gaze goes beyond the flesh.” 

Gwaine turned back, his sword smoothly drawn as he twisted, but there was no one there. He looked back to the village and everything seemed the same; cheerful people going about their day. The sun was cold now and Gwaine shivered while he quickly sheathed his sword and walked away. He forced himself not to break out into a run, but paced himself. He knew that there were plenty of people in Camelot capable of magic. Most hid themselves, lived ordinary lives and simply never used magic, or never even knew they had it. Tohin had been old enough to have lived before the purges, if he was still around that could only mean that the whole village still practiced the old ways and covered for him. It was remote enough to not be reported by anyone else passing by. 

He was crossing the ford around noon and reached the clearing not too long after that. He almost had a heart attack when the horses were gone and there was no trace of Merlin or Arthur, but then the air seemed to shimmer and there they were. He blinked and Merlin grinned sheepishly. 

“Sorry, I thought it would be best to keep up an appearance when I heard someone coming.” 

Gwaine nodded. “Good thinking.” He lowered the bundle and sat down. He didn’t even blink at the sight of Arthur’s head in Merlin’s lap. “How is he doing?” Merlin shrugged, but didn’t say anything so Gwaine simply opened his satchel and pulled out the food. “You should eat something. I have food _and_ I have this.” He pulled out the clear bottle and gave it to Merlin. 

“What is it?” 

“Moonshine; we can use it to disinfect Arthur’s wounds.” 

It was worth giving up the chance to get drunk to see the smile on Merlin’s face. Together, they loosened the jacket and undid the bandages. They cleared the remains of the herbs with water and then poured the liquid over Arthur’s back. He didn’t move or make a sound at the sharp sting and Merlin’s smile dimmed. They quickly bandaged him again and then Gwaine made Merlin sit down and eat while Gwaine told him about the village between mouthfuls. 

Merlin was frowning thoughtfully. “He didn’t say whose side the healer was on?” 

Gwaine shook his head. 

Merlin turned to look at Arthur. He had never known Arthur to be so still for so long. His face was flushed and his skin felt hot to the touch and Merlin could no longer ignore that Arthur had a fever, that his wounds must be infected, that they were still bleeding and now also oozing a wicked yellow fluid that Merlin didn’t like the sight of at all. 

“We’ll have to risk it. Arthur can’t last much longer without help.” 

They got Arthur back onto a horse and Merlin climbed on behind him. 

“Merlin, what will we do if the healer won’t help us?” Gwaine asked, leading his horse into a slow canter. 

Merlin pressed his heels into his horse’s flank. “I’ll make her help us.” 

To Be Continued …


	7. Chapter 7

The cottage stood in the middle of the clearing: big and stately, but rundown and gloomy. The bottom walls were made out of stone to prevent flooding . The stonework was about two feet high before thick wooden panels rose up to the thatched roof. The door was elevated, resting on the thick, grey-coloured stones, a small staircase leading up to it. A big chimney slowly bellowed smoke while the second, smaller one was silent. Dilapidated stables leaned against the left side of the cottage, looking forlorn and abandoned. There was a window next to the door, but curtains were drawn; a small glow, maybe from a fire, peeking out from the edges. The upstairs triangular windows, set across each other and the tips reaching into the eaves of the cottage, were dark. 

There was a small garden next to the stairs and Merlin could recognize foxglove, bell heather and clover. There were pink flowers with a yellow and green star-shaped center that might have been hollyhock, but he wasn’t sure. There was a small red flower called poppy Merlin only recognized from one of Gaius’ old books because it wasn’t supposed to grow in Albion soil. Growing near the wall of the house, there was a large yellow flower, with a big, dark brown middle that looked like it would be prickly to touch. Small, yellow buttercup grew around it. On the other side of the stairs there was a small vegetable garden. 

“I have never come across this clearing,” Gwaine said, frowning. “And I must have passed near these parts at least a dozen times.” 

“Me too.” 

Merlin guided his horse closer in the gathering dark and then dismounted. He could hear Gwaine doing the same and then there was a pair of hands helping him to carefully lower Arthur to the ground. Merlin quickly checked his breathing, which had become shallow and fast, his pulse, which was beating too quickly, and his forehead, which was too hot and flushed, especially with the way the temperature had dropped the minute the sun had lowered behind the horizon. 

“Stay here.” 

He left Arthur with Gwaine, hopped up the stairs and knocked on the door; loudly but hopefully politely. There was an itch burrowing under his skin, the worry he’d kept such a tight lid on threatening to burst through its cage and making him fall apart. He took a deep breath and shook his head. Someone shuffled their feet behind the door and Merlin could hear a lock being turned and the sound of wood scraping against wood; a latch turned up and then the door opened. 

The healer was almost as tall as him. Her pale blond hair was braided together and hung loosely over her left shoulder, resting on the swell of her breasts. Her blue eyes darkened and a small wrinkle frowned into existence between her eyes. She was wearing a dark green dress with little white cap sleeves, the black ties at the front loose enough to catch a glimpse of the white underdress. A brown belt was strapped around her waist and a black amulet was tied to her wrist. 

“I was not expecting you,” Merlin said, because it was the truth. 

Gloria Redwood simply raised her eyebrows and leaned against the doorjamb. She closed the door slowly, until Merlin could no longer see into the room behind her. She looked ready to slam the door in his face if he tried to barge his way in. She didn’t say anything. 

“I need your help.” 

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “With what?” 

“You said you were a healer,” Merlin answered, and he turned to look at Arthur. “He needs your help.” 

“Is that Pendragon?” She let go of the door and stepped forward slightly. “Let me guess, his sister?” 

Merlin’s head snapped back so quickly he heard something crack ominously. “How do you know?” 

She shrugged and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Every witch or wizard worth their salt knows about her. She _is_ claiming to be the new priestess of the Old Religion, after all.” She looked back at Arthur. “And she’s been trying to raise an army amongst magic users to attack Camelot.” 

“Is she succeeding?” 

Her eyes were hooded when she looked at him. “I keep my own council, Merlin. It is the way of the witch.” 

“Fine, I just …. He needs help, please,” Merlin said, because he was willing to get on his knees and beg if he had to. 

She turned her back on him. “Bring him inside.” 

Merlin quickly doubled back and helped Gwaine with moving Merlin inside. 

“Is that who I think it is?” Gwaine asked once they were inside, but Merlin just hushed him. 

“Lay him down on one of the beds.” 

There were several small beds, only slightly larger and with a thicker mattress than a cot, arranged in a circle around the hearth, which had a crackling fire burning away. The hearth itself stood in the center of the room, a big round, massive thing held up with three archways that allowed the fire to spread its warmth to every corner of the room and one slightly larger archway, giving access to a large metal rack, where a black pewter cauldron hung on a hook.

There was a large wooden staircase in the right corner, opposite the massive hearth and right next to the doors. An upper landing with a wooden balustrade decorated with carved animals and flowers hung on the right wall, filled with several closed doors. Right next to the stairs was another closed door and next to that were several bookcases. It reminded Merlin of Gaius’s workshop; books stacked so high and thickly they seemed to be in danger of spilling out onto the floor at any moment. Several herbs were drying in bundles, hung on beams from the ceiling. At the far end of the room, a huge workbench, littered with crystals, herbs, small pots, vials dominated the room and a huge tome lay open at the end of it. Behind it stood a huge leech tank and several wooden jars and another bookcase, but its shelves were littered with little vials, pots and other carefully stoppered concoctions. A stool was placed at the end, in front of the open tome. The floor was made out of wood and a warmly coloured rug covered it most places. An amulet made of twigs, twine and white crystal hung above the front door. It was unlike anything Merlin had ever seen before. 

Gloria stood behind the workbench and calmly took a white apron from a hook on the wall. She lowered the loop over her head and tied the straps at her back. When she came closer, Merlin could see that the apron was spotted with blood. 

“You-” She pointed at Gwaine. “Go take care of your horses. You can put them in the stables, there should be fresh hay in the loft. There’s a ladder and a pitchfork you can use. There’s a pile of wood and an axe out back. Go chop some and bring it in; we’ll have to keep the fire burning all night to make sure it’s warm.”

Gwaine glanced at Merlin, who nodded, and then he was out the door. Gloria grabbed the collar of Merlin’s jacket, still wrapped around Arthur, and pulled. 

“Let’s see what we have here.” 

The bandages were covered in spots, seeped through from Arthur’s skin: red, dark brown and yellow. Gloria frowned. She started peeling back the bandages slowly, one by one, revealing strip after strip of bloody and ripped skin. She inhaled sharply through her nose and continued to peel away, gently and carefully. She threw the bandages into the fire without even looking and started poking carefully at the skin around the open welts. “Merlin, there’s a bucket by the door and a well out back, go fetch some water.” 

Merlin hesitated and she looked up to glare at him. “I need fresh water, Merlin!” The brusque snap in her voice reminded him so much of Arthur he nearly obeyed out of habit, but he held his ground. Her gaze softened, almost imperceptibly. “I won’t hurt him. You have my word.” 

So Merlin left, grabbing the bucket by the door and going to fetch water. Gloria turned back to her patient and tried not to remember that it was Arthur Pendragon, of all people, lying on one of her sickbeds. The skin around the injuries was red and angry, mottled with old yellow and green bruises, whilst puss and blood slowly trickled down his sides. His skin was too hot all over. Infection was setting in and his body was already trying to fight it, raising the temperature to burn out the disease. She stood and went to her workbench. She’d have to give him one of the most potent solutions, the kind she didn’t feel comfortable having around ready to go. 

She selected one of the bundles hanging from the ceiling and pried apart the leaves. She used a knife to pick off some of its seeds, which she crushed in the mortar. She grabbed two vials from the shelf and mixed them together in a smaller glass, added the crushed herbs and then took a few poppy seeds from a small, brown jar. She ground them to powder and added them in the mix. She looked up when Merlin came in with the bucket of water. 

“Put it by the wall, as far away from the fire as possible.” She took up the glass and went to sit by Pendragon. She put the glass on the floor and carefully turned him on his side. She ordered Merlin to sit by the head of the bed and prop him up. She tried to pour a few drops down his throat, but he didn’t swallow and they simply dribbled down his chin. 

“I tried to give him some water this morning, but he barely swallowed anything,” Merlin said and his voice sounded small and weak and afraid. It fell like a cloak around her shoulders and she shrugged it off. She quickly fetched a clean rag from the cabinet build into the workbench and sat back down. She dipped the cloth in the glass, until it was well and truly soaked and then she carefully lowered it into Arthur’s mouth. After a long, confusing second, Merlin watched as Arthur’s mouth closed around the cloth and his throat muscles started working as he sucked the moisture from the cloth. 

“It’s instinct,” Gloria said. “Goes back to childhood.” 

Merlin nodded dumbly and held Arthur in his arms as Gloria continued to dip the cloth into the potion and then transfer it to Arthur’s mouth. His cheek rested against the top of Arthur’s head, the blond hair tickling his face. Arthur would be alright now. Gloria had amazing abilities. She’d boasted about how her skill was unparalleled. Arthur would be fine, better than fine. He resisted the urge to kiss Arthur’s forehead in relief. 

It took nearly half an hour before the whole vial was gone, but Gloria sat with them all the same, calm and patient. She was different now, silent and still, brusque in her gentleness; not unkind and not harsh either, but matter-of-fact. There was no passion now, no feeling, no tears or hysterics. Neither the calculated heat of her rage, nor the vicious despair of her cell clung to her. She was just a healer, sitting on the rug and slowly, carefully, holding the cloth to Arthur’s lips time and again. 

Gwaine had been in and out with armfuls of chopped wood and finally stacked his last load by the side of the door. He took two logs and added them to the dying fire. He studied them for a minute, until Gloria rose, moist rag and empty glass in her hand. 

“Anything else I can do?” 

Gloria looked at him and then at Merlin. “The second door on your right.” She pointed at the upper landing. “There’s a wooden tub and a small fireplace in there. Heat some water and prepare a bath. The both of you need it.” 

Gwaine sighed and grabbed another bucket by the door to start collecting water from the well. Gloria left the glass on the workbench and gathered the already filled bucket and a second clean rag. “Put him on his belly,” she ordered. She drenched the rag, squeezed out the excess fluid and started about cleaning the injuries. She ignored Gwaine coming back in and climbing up the stairs. When she eventually cast aside the rag, the water in the bucket had turned a dark, muddy colour and Gloria peered carefully at the injuries. She shuffled closer to Merlin on her knees and reached out, so she could put her hands on Arthur’s forehead. 

“ _clǽnsian blōd_ ” 

Her eyes flared gold briefly, like Merlin’s did when he used magic, and then her hands fell away and she stood. 

“What kind of spell did you use?” Merlin asked as she walked back towards her workbench and lifted a big, earthen jar from the floor besides the shelves. 

“It was a spell to cleanse the blood.” Merlin wrinkled his nose in disgust when she removed the lid of the jar, stuffed her hand inside and pulled out a handful of white, wriggling maggots. She rolled her eyes at the look on his face and carefully spread them out on Arthur’s back. “The potion I gave him will help with the pain and will fight of the infection. The spell will cleanse the blood his heart is pumping through his body, to prevent the infection from spreading. These little ones will eat away the infected flesh.” 

Merlin softly stroked Arthur’s hair. “He is going to be alright, isn’t he?” 

She cut a glance at him and then turned back to her work. “If he makes it through the night.”

A sharp, panicky feeling settled into his stomach. “If?” 

“Look at him, Merlin, really look at him,” she said softly. 

Arthur’s skin was pale and covered with sweat. His face was flushed, two bright spots below his cheek bones, but the rest of him was as white as a sheet. His lips were bloodless and his eyes, when Merlin peeled back his lids, were bloodshot and glazed over. His hair was sticking to his scalp and the angry red welts on his back stood out. His skin had never felt so hot to the touch and Merlin was taken back to that frightening night when Arthur had laid in bed, bitten by the Questing Beast and fading out of the world. 

He looked back at her and her face was grim. “He’ll be dead before dawn.” 

His heart stuttered to a stop. “That’s not true.” The words were out before he could stop them, but he was right; it wasn’t true. It _couldn’t_ be true. 

She spread the last of the maggots on the injuries. She turned to look at him. He could see the tense muscles in her jaw from where she was clenching her teeth together. Her eyes were hard and cold. Her mouth was a thin, straightforward line and he felt something clench deep inside of him. 

“Pendragon’s injuries are too extensive.” She pointed to the massive cut from his right shoulder to his waste. “This cut is more than five days old. It’s been infected for at least three.” 

It had happened before Morgana had gotten her hands on him. Arthur must have gotten that cut while he was taken from the city, or perhaps in an attempt to escape the mercenaries. 

Gloria gestured at the mesh of cuts. “These were inflicted with a whip. They are becoming infected as well, but the infection has not yet gained strength. They’re not as bad as they look either; shallow cuts, no lasting damage to the muscles or the nerves. Whoever was handling the whip lacks the upper body strength to do any serious damage.” She gestured again. “The big one will finish him.” 

After all of this, it wasn’t even Morgana that would kill Arthur. 

“I don’t believe you.” Merlin ignored the trembling of his voice. “If you believe he’s dying, why are you helping him?” 

“I owe you; the least I can do is try.” 

Merlin scrubbed at his eyes to stop the tears from falling. “Isn’t there anything else you can do? Magic you can use?” 

“He’s too far gone. To heal him with magic now would demand a sacrifice.” He opened his mouth, ready to offer his own life but she shook her head. “I follow the ways of the Old Religion, Merlin, but there are limits. Power corrupts. Be careful to never partake in too much of it.” 

Gloria rose and went upstairs to help Gwaine with stoking the fire in the bathroom and heating up the water, filling the tub. Merlin sat on the rug by the head of Arthur’s bed and ignored Gwaine as he came and went for more water. He leaned his forehead against Arthur’s and softly stroked his hair. His breathing was shallow and this time Merlin did not fight the hitch in his lungs as hot, salty tears spilled over his cheeks. He cried until he was out of tears and then he just held on, his right elbow resting on the mattress and his right hand carding through Arthur’s hair, the other curled around the nape of Arthur’s neck as if he could hold Arthur in the world with just the force of his hands and his will. 

He didn’t know how much time passed, but eventually he could feel warm hands trying to pry him away from Arthur. He batted them away. 

“No, I’m not leaving him.” 

“Come on, Merlin.” It was Gwaine’s voice and Gwaine’s hands and they finally managed to pull Merlin away. His hair was wet and it seemed that he’d made a valiant attempt at shaving because the full blown beard he’d been sporting the last two days had been reduced to nothing and Merlin had never seen him without his scruff before. He was also wearing clean and unfamiliar clothes that were slightly too big on him and Merlin was so surprised at the sight of him and so tired and exhausted that he hadn’t even noticed Gwaine had gotten him to walk away until he was halfway up the stairs. He tried to turn around again, but Gwaine stopped him. 

“You need a bath and some rest, Merlin. You’re dead on your feet.” 

Merlin just nodded; all the life drained out of him. He simply stood and obeyed as Gwaine ordered him to take of his clothes and get into the tub. The water was warm and there was a bar of soap that smelled like flowers. He soaped and washed and there was a weird paste that Gwaine told him was supposed to go in his hair. After that, Gwaine helped him out of the enormous wooden tub, dried him off and carefully helped him shave. He was handed some clean clothes, the same size as the ones Gwaine was wearing and Merlin was nearly swimming in them. They went downstairs again, where the fire was blazing. 

Arthur’s sweat had been wiped down, but was already gathering again at the nape. He was wearing new, clean trousers and there was a cool, wet cloth resting on his forehead. A bucket of cool, clean water was standing near the wall, far away from the fire’s heat. The maggots were wriggling and writhing in his wounds and the skin around them looked frighteningly white. Merlin sat down on the rug again, in the same position as before. 

“She said he’s dying,” Gwaine said softly, sitting down beside Merlin. 

Merlin didn’t respond. He simply pulled away the cloth and wiped down the sweat sticking to Arthur’s nape. He finally gave in and pressed his lips to Arthur’s forehead; the skin there already hot and sticky again. If Merlin had any tears left, he’d be crying again. Gwaine’s arm curled around his shoulders and they sat like that, Gloria looking down on them from the upper landing. 

To Be Continued…


	8. Chapter 8

Leon had not spent all of his life in battle. In fact, he had grown up in peace time and most of his childhood was one blur of sunshine and his mother’s laughter. When he’d gone to Camelot, to be a page, he’d spent most of his time training diligently, but he’d also gone off and learned how to drink like a man, play cards and more often than not they’d gone hunting for the sake of hunting, not because they needed the meat. Most of the battles he had seen had been raids against thieves or smugglers with Camelot’s force being in far greater number. The last five years of his life had been the most exciting, if that was the proper word, fighting walking skeletons and armies that wouldn’t die. He’d even gone up against a dragon, once. None of those could be called proper, traditional battles though and in the art of warfare, Leon was lacking in experience. That didn’t mean he was an inept little boy who was completely caught off guard in an ambush. 

He raised his sword and bashed a man’s skull in. The blood spattered up high. None of the archers who’d been part of Mercia’s force in the ambush were still alive. While Bayard had ordered the archers to assemble in strategic places around the ruins of Cadarn Afon, Leon had sent in a small skirmish force. Cenwig had said Bayard chose the ground for neutrality’s sake, but none of the area was neutral, because Bayard had had at least two days to explore and learn its hidden nooks and crannies. So Leon had sent men to cross the river in secret and make sure that the scene of parlay was secure. A small, nearly silent battle had broken out, and all the archers hidden away had been killed before a message could be sent to Mercia’s main force. The arrows raining down on the parlay had all been aiming at Mercian troops. 

Men had been sent out by both parties, to warn the army, ready and waiting, and battle had swooped down on all of them. Leon was in the thick of it, angry and frustrated, trying to keep his head cool under the blood lust of battle. Sweat was dripping down his face while he dodged and struck in turn. Bayard had slipped away immediately after he’d realized that his trap hadn’t worked and the tide had been turned against him. But the smarmy captain, Cenwig of Maros, had been left behind and Leon was fighting through the swarm of bodies to get to him. If he couldn’t get to King Bayard, he could at least take down that smug, murdering bastard. Leon remembered the look on Cenwig’s face; he’d known, the moment he’d invited Leon to parlay, he’d known what Bayard had been up to.

Leon feinted to the left and swung his sword down, cut down into the muscles of Cenwig’s calf. The other knight went down with a cry and Leon stomped his boot down on his face. The cartilage of Cenwig’s nose broke underneath the sole and blood burst out everywhere. There was a gurgle as he tried to speak, but then he grabbed a knife from his waist and attempted to dig it in Leon’s leg. Leon drove his sword into Cenwig’s shoulder and the blue-bedecked knight dropped the knife with a scream abruptly cut short as Leon delivered the killing blow by thrusting his sword into that heaving, lying throat. 

The battle raged around him, men screaming and killing, dying. A voice rising out of the tumult was crying for its mother and suddenly silenced. Leon wished he was on a horse or on higher ground, so he could survey the battle more clearly. But he didn’t need a bird’s eye view to realize that already the fight was at a stalemate. They were just mindlessly beating on each other now, neither force gaining any ground. They were stuck on the land between the fords and Leon either needed to advance now and gain the opposite shore, or retreat, spare lives and give Bayard another chance to surrender now that his initial plan had fallen through. 

“Retreat!” he yelled as loud as he could, over the din of battle, and slowly, his cry was taken up by both men in red and men in blue. The battle was in such chaos, no one could tell who was giving the order, but it didn’t matter. Leon breathed in deeply; if Mercia’s forces were retreating they’d be too busy to attempt to follow Camelot’s army. 

“Retreat!” was sounding all around them now and Leon caught sight of Percival beating away a few of Mercia’s more courageous knights while slowly giving ground. Elyan was nearer to the ford, having arrived after, and gave cover as the men crossed the river. He looked around again and then caught sight of something that made the blood in his veins run cold. 

He’d sent Neville with the skirmish force to give the boy some confidence, but he’d stressed that Neville should stay out of sight if it came down to it. He was not unskilled with the bow and arrow and from a vantage position he could still contribute to the battle, but stay safe. In an effort to prove himself, Neville had thrown himself head first in the battle and while he’d held up at first, he was now giving way to the blows of a more experienced and trained knight. He held up his sword in defense position and blocked nearly every blow, but his young body was buckling under the weight of a fully grown man. Leon struggled to reach him, but the boy was too far away.

He watched as Neville nearly tripped over a dead body during his retreat. The stumble gave his opponent an edge and the boy cried out when the enemy blade came down hard on his arm. The chainmail protected him from the cut, but the strength of the blow made him stagger and he curled his arm inward, close to his torso, to protect it, the pain obviously disorientating him. The enemy knight closed in and Leon struggled to shout a warning to any other man of Camelot that might help Neville in time, but his voice was lost in the din of “retreat!” and the cries of battle. He watched, horrified, as the sword was knocked out of Neville’s hand and the boy staggered back, fear evident on his face. He was still so young, just a boy. 

The enemy knight raised his sword high; the sweep of it would catch Neville in the collarbone or cut his throat. Leon gritted his teeth and gutted a blue-cloaked figure coming at him and shoved him out of the way. He wasn’t going to let that knight leave the battlefield alive. He saw Neville lean back and then, with that fear still crossing his face, dropped to one knee and delivered a solid punch to his combatant’s knee. There was a crunch of cartilage and Neville ducked, rolled away from the downward swoop of the knight’s sword, picked up his own and stumbled to his feet. With one solid blow, he struck the knight’s head. Leon watched, nearly dumbfounded, as Neville stood there for a second longer, trembling, before dropping his sword and promptly throwing up over his enemies’ body. 

Leon had finally reached him and slowly helped him to his feet. “We’re retreating, Neville. Come.” Leon grabbed him by the back of his cloak and slowly dragged the squire away. The field was slowly emptying of men and left behind were bodies trampled into the mud by retreating boots. While he helped Neville, he saw Percival and Elyan helping other wounded men cross the fords. He crossed the river and slowly marched back to Ampthill. Neville trudged slowly along by his side, the young man’s head hanging. Leon kept an arm around his shoulder. 

When they reached their camp, he quickly addressed the captain of the company he’d left behind. “Gather your men and return to the battlefield to collect the dead and the wounded. Mercia will be doing the same, but be careful. Sound the horn if you’re attacked.” 

The captain nodded and the men moved out. In the meantime, Leon led Neville to his tent and made him sit down on Leon’s cot. He grabbed the flask of wine he’d hidden in his satchel and gave it to the pale-faced young man. 

“Drink this.” 

His eyes were vacant and slightly glazed over, but he accepted and took a big gulp, coughing into the bitter drink. 

“Take it easy,” Leon said and sat down next to him. Neville handed back the flask and Leon took a sip of his own. “You did great, Neville. You survived your first battle and fought gloriously.” 

He blushed. “But I was sick…” 

Leon clasped him on the back and hid the flask again. “It was your first battle, Neville. It takes years to get used to the blood and the screaming. No one will hold it against you.” He watched him take a deep breath. Neville wasn’t a boy anymore. It was a steep price to pay. “Now come on. There’s still a lot to do.” 

He undid his cloak and dropped it on the cot. He helped Neville to his feet and then stepped from the tent. They spent the next few hours helping the wounded. Separating the ones too seriously wounded from the ones who could still walk. Those beyond their help were loaded unto carts, strapped to the few horses they could spare and carted off to Camelot. They were given some supplies for the journey and their armour and weapons were collected to be given to people who could still wield them. Leon sent as many men with them as he could spare, which wasn’t a lot, but he didn’t want the wounded to be attacked and slaughtered on the way to Camelot. 

It was nearly nightfall by the time he watched the carts take off. The dead had been collected and burned to prevent the river from being polluted. They’d had a quiet, solemn ceremony and they’d used a cloak with the crest of Camelot nailed to one of the burned beams from the village to mark the spot where the fire pyre was still burning. One day, after this war was behind him, they’d erect a proper memorial. 

He ordered the men to light fires, helped distribute food and took part in the first night’s watch. Percival and Elyan were both fine. Elyan had a cut on his cheek and he was limping slightly, but he insisted he was alright. Percival had washed off the blood and the sweat, but he seemed completely unhurt despite the fact that Leon had caught a glimpse of him fighting off three assailants at the same time. 

“You’re not hurt?” Percival asked, calmly cleaning his sword. 

Leon shook his head. He was sore all over and he had an amazing headache that might be a concussion, but he hadn’t been injured. 

They stood at the picket lines, carefully peering out into the darkness. 

“You both should get some rest. I’d appreciate it if you each took a turn at one of the watches.” 

Percival nodded. “I’ll take the next one.” 

Elyan stretched. “Alright, I’ll take the one before dawn. I’m going to my bedroll.” 

He clasped Percival on the shoulder and took off. Leon and Percival watched him go. 

“He’s limping less,” Percival remarked. 

Leon nodded, but didn’t say anything. He felt sore and tired and he desperately wanted to know if Merlin and Gwaine had found Arthur yet. Camelot needed him more than ever. Leon was a good commander. He was confident in his own ability to hold off Bayard, but Arthur rallied the men like no one else. Already, his skill in battle had taken on legendary proportions; to hear the soldiers speak off him. They were all worried and anxious at his absence. They’d fight for their lives, but they’d win for Arthur. 

“They’ll find him, won’t they?” Percival asked. 

Leon didn’t ask need to ask who he was talking about and simply nodded again. “If anyone can find him, it’s Merlin.” 

Percival sighed deeply. “I just wish we knew if…” He trailer off and shook his head. “I’ll get some sleep. You’ll be alright out here?” 

Leon gave him a tired smile. “Of course, go on. I’ll see you at the changing of the guard.” 

Percival clasped him on the back and Leon playfully punched him in the shoulder. He watched the tall, tree of a man make his way down the small line of tents and then turned outward back to the darkness. The moon was no longer full, slowly to waning gibbous and Leon rubbed his tired eyes. He took a small sip from his water canteen. The darkness was oppressive, except for the fires marking out the camp and the picket lines. Leon didn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary. There was only the rustle of the wind in the trees and the coughs and sneezes of the men in the camp and the other men around the picket lines. 

Around midnight the change of watch came and he nodded to Percival before making his way to his own tent. When he stepped into the tent, a brazier was still burning and Neville immediately sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 

“You don’t have to get up,” Leon told him, but Neville shook his head and although he was only dressed in thin pajama trousers and a thin, old tunic, he still reached up and to undo the latches of Leon’s armour and help him out of his chainmail. 

“I don’t mind. It’s my job.” 

He moved quickly, a lot quicker than Leon would have been able to on his own. He crawled back into his bedroll afterwards and Leon quickly washed near the small washbasin and then blew out the candles before crawling into his own cot. In the darkness he stared up at the soft canvass of the tent, thinking that he would never fall asleep. The next thing he knew, sunshine had lifted the shadows and Neville was already up and dressed. Outside, the sounds of a camp waking up reached Leon’s ears. He made it out of bed and dressed himself, shooing Neville away because there was enough to be done like sharpening and polishing armour. 

He made it out of the tent and found Elyan who was eating his breakfast standing up, eyes on the distant picket lines. 

“Everything alright?” Leon asked, grabbing some bread and cheese from the platter. 

Elyan shrugged. “There was a small skirmish group; tried to break through the lines around dawn. We got them before they could send back word. Nothing after that.” 

Leon nodded. “We should send out a small group ourselves; get them to warn us when the Mercian army starts to assemble.” 

Elyan nodded and mumbled through a bite of bread, “Already taken care of.” 

Leon grinned and lightly shook Elyan’s shoulder. “Well done.” 

He ignored the surprised blinking of Elyan’s eyelids and was about to take another bite out of his breakfast when there was an uproar from the picket lines and a messenger burst into the little circle. 

“The Mercian army is assembling. It looks like they’ll be attempting to cross the fords before we can stop them, sir.” 

Leon resisted the urge to curse loudly, put down his breakfast and started shouting orders. He’d really hoped Bayard would actually attempt to parlay first. Leon was sure they could hold this position and stop the Mercian army from advancing for now, but not forever. 

To Be Continued …


	9. Chapter 9

The citadel was quiet and still, almost unnaturally so. The great hall, littered with full beds, was dark and only a few candles had been lighted to see by. Regretfully, Gwen let go of the hand she’d been holding and pulled the sheet forward to cover the young man’s face. In the morning, soldiers would come to collect the body and carry him down to the cellars. The cold down there would help preserve the bodies until they were ready for burial. Gwen smoothed out the sheets and squeezed her eyes shut to prevent the tears from falling. There was too much death in Camelot tonight. She pressed her hand against her mouth to stop a sob from escaping and waking any of the sleeping wounded nearby. A hand on her shoulder nearly made her scream, but her tears choked back the noise. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Lancelot’s smile was soft and apologetic. 

Gwen smiled tightly and stepped back, Lancelot’s hand falling away from her shoulder. “It’s fine, no worries.” 

Lancelot looked down at the covered body and his smile dimmed. “It must be hard for you.” She didn’t say anything in response and he cleared his throat. “You should get some rest. You’ve been up all night helping.” 

“We all have,” Gwen whispered and nodded at the other side of the hall where Elena was sponging down sweat from a soldier’s forehead. Her other hand was holding his gently while she whispered words of encouragement. 

Lancelot turned to look at her for a minute and then turned back to Gwen. “You’re right.” 

They stood together in silence for a minute, looking at the wounded soldiers in the gloom. Gwen shook herself and gathered her bucket with water. “I should get some fresh water.” 

Lancelot gently took the bucket from her. “Let me, please. It’s pretty cold outside.” 

Gwen nodded and quickly turned away from him. “Alright, I’ll fetch some new bandages.” 

Lancelot looked slightly disappointed, but she ignored him and quickly turned around to Gaius’ quarters. She passed the old man in the corridor where a few extra cots had been placed when they’d run out of beds in the great hall. He was sitting near a soldier, gently helping him drink a potion. She squeezed his shoulder quickly as she passed and he gave her a tired smile. The amount of soldiers was draining him, but they didn’t have anyone else. If he’d been younger, he would have gone out with the army to help as many soldiers on the field, but he was too old for that now. The years weighed on him heavily. 

The physician’s chambers were cold. No one had thought to light the fire. Gwen shivered and quickly ran to the big basket filled to the brim with bandages. She gathered a few strips to use as rags and quickly left again. Her footsteps sounded loud in the corridor and when she looked outside, through the mirrors, she saw all of Camelot twinkling away the night. Candles and fires were lit everywhere. Braziers had been raised on the battlements to both warm the patrolling soldiers and give them light to see by. She wondered how the battle went, so far away, close to the river. So many had come back injured, but many more were still out there, sleeping underneath the sky. She wondered where Merlin was and whether he’d found Arthur yet; if they were safe. 

She didn’t allow herself to wonder long. There were too many things to do; too many things to worry about. If she started worrying, she’d never stop. By the time she reached the great hall, Lancelot had already returned with fresh water. She smiled when she took the bucket from him, but looked away when the butterflies in her belly fluttered too heavily and heated her cheeks. It wasn’t right to feel for Lancelot this way. It wasn’t right. She spent the next hour going from bed to bed, soaking bandages and cleaning off sweat and blood. Many wounds had become infected before the soldiers had managed to reach Camelot and while they were doing everything they could, too many were dying. Gwen, Gaius, Elena and some other servants were doing as much as they could, but not everyone could be spared to take care of the wounded. 

Elena was doing the same thing: wiping away sweat and blood, holding hands and saying sweet words, calming down the ones who were crying and soothing them to sleep. Many were crying for their mothers, or asking after girls who were miles away. Most of them were finally dropping off to sleep. Elena hoped that they wouldn’t lose any more men tonight – that the weakest had already died –because she wasn’t sure she could handle much more death. She had been prepared for war and blood and destruction, but the reality of it all was much worse than she could ever have imagined; more than she could have braced herself for. 

There had been no significant news from the battlefront. Both Mercia and Camelot had suffered heavy losses and as of yet, there had been no serious attempts at parlay. There was no news at all on Arthur and the people who had gone out to look for him. She’d hoped that Gwen might know something, but the poor girl was equally clueless about the man she loved. Elena squeezed some water out of the cloth and softly patted down a soldiers’ cheek. He sighed in his sleep and she tucked him in more securely. She stood carefully and lifted the bucket. It was starting to get heavy in her arms, but she slowly moved forward anyway. It was the least she could do. Her father had begged her to go home, but she was determined to stay here. She wanted to be here when they all came back, safe and sound. She wanted to see him.

“Elena?” 

She turned to face Gwen, who was frowning at her. Elena hadn’t looked in a mirror since that morning, so she didn’t know how worn and tired she looked. Her face was slightly gaunt and big circles bruised beneath her eyes. 

“You should get some rest,” Gwen said and reached out to lift the bucket from Elena’s hold. “You look dead on your feet.”

“So do you,” Elena countered and she was right. She’d never seen Gwen look so pale before and even her cheerful curls were drooping. “You should get some rest too.” 

“You should both get some rest.” They turned to look at Lancelot. “Gaius has just informed me that there’s nothing more to be done. He’s turned in for the night. I suggest you do the same.” Gwen tried to object but Lancelot shook his head. “We’ll need you both tomorrow, in case more wounded come in. We need you at your best, not worn down and tired. Besides, if Arthur sees you in such a state, he won’t be pleased with me when he comes back.” 

Elena smiled. “That’s true. We should have something to eat and go to bed. We’ll be able to do more in the morning.” 

Gwen sighed, but relented. “Alright then. Let me just grab my cloak from Gaius’ quarters and I’ll be on my way.” 

Lancelot bowed slightly. “I shall escort you home, just in case.” 

Gwen’s smile was brittle and Elena quickly intervened, “I’m sure there’s no need for that.” She stepped forward and caught Lancelot’s gaze with hers. There was a warning trapped in her eyes before she turned back to Gwen and her whole face folded into the gentlest expression anyone had ever seen. “I have more than enough space in my chambers, Gwen. You can stay with me for the night, instead of taking the long walk back home.” 

Gwen shook her head anxiously. “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly impose.” 

“My dear Gwen,” Elena said, and wrapped her arm around Gwen’s shoulders. “It wouldn’t be an imposition at all. The fire will be stoked and warm, we’ll have a light meal before going to bed and we’ll be right as rain in the morning.” 

Gwen smiled broadly, but shook her head. “You are too kind, Elena, really. I couldn’t possibly accept. Besides, there are a few refugees taking shelter in my home. I should check on them; make sure they’re alright.” 

“You have a kind heart,” Lancelot said and he looked relieved. 

Elena released Gwen and heaved a dramatic sigh. “Very well, I’ll go to my own chambers, all by myself.” She grinned at Gwen but cut a sharp look at Lancelot. “I shall see you both in the morning.” 

They exchanged their goodbyes and Elena watched as Lancelot offered Gwen her arm while he escorted her out of the great hall and down the corridor to Gaius’ chambers. They silently collected the cloak so they wouldn’t wake up Gaius. On the steps of the citadel Gwen took her hand off Lancelot’s arm and smiled. “I can walk by myself from here.” 

Lancelot shook his head. “No, Gwen, I couldn’t possibly let you walk alone. Arthur wouldn’t….” He cleared his throat. “Letting you go alone wouldn’t be proper.” 

Letting you walk me home would be even less proper, Gwen thought, and Arthur certainly wouldn’t think it was proper or innocent. She shook her head. “I’ve walked home by myself after dark more times than I can count, ever since I became Morgana’s maid.” 

She saw him reach out to touch her and she stepped back, heart in her throat. She blushed, ashamed of herself because Arthur was out there, all alone in the dark, and here she was with Lancelot, both wanting and dreading his touch. Seeing her step away, he only offered her his arm instead of reaching out for her. 

“Please, Gwen. The city is filled with strangers and there are men who would take advantage of the current situation. I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you because I had let you walk alone.” 

She hesitated. Arthur would want her to be safe, wouldn’t he? Or was she simply looking for excuses? She always had to guard herself so well against Lancelot even though she loved Arthur. She looked out over the square, down the winding streets in the distance. They were dissertated at this time of night and while there were candles and fires at every window, there were shadowy doorways and hidden corners. Gwen shivered with the cold.

“Would you do me the honour?” Lancelot asked and she turned back to look at him. His open, pleasant smile charmed her and she could feel herself relent. 

She ducked her head so she wouldn’t have to look at him and took his arm. Together, they set off towards her home in the lower town. 

“How are you?” 

Gwen shivered again. “What do you mean?” 

“Well, how are you holding up with … everything? I mean, you work so hard. You’re so kind, Gwen. It must be hard for you.” 

Gwen shook her head. “It’s not hard for me to be kind, Lancelot. I just do what I can, for the people of Camelot. In times of need we all have to work together to pull through. It’s hard to see people die, to see them hurt and I worry, but I try to have faith.” 

“Faith?” 

“Faith in Merlin, in Arthur, in the knights of Camelot.” She was smiling. “In you.” 

Lancelot huffed a breath of laughter. “Faith in me?” 

“Of course, you’re a knight of Camelot. I’m sure that, if you had to, you would keep us all safe here. I have faith in that.” 

They walked on in companionable silence and Gwen felt comforted and warm and yet, as always, ashamed that she felt such things with Lancelot. Eventually, they stopped in front of Gwen’s home. There was no light coming from underneath the door. The family must have gone to bed and Gwen could understand. It was past midnight and they had a young child to take care of. Gwen pulled the ends of her cloak closer and smiled at Lancelot. He was standing very close and the heat of his body was seeping into hers. 

“It gives me courage, to know you have so much faith in me.” His hand reached out and cupped her shoulder. His thumb stroked the fabric there, back and forth. 

Gwen rotated her shoulder backwards until it slipped from his grasp and she stepped away. She shook her head. “You shouldn’t ….” She shook her head again. 

He stepped back. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.” 

Gwen’s smile was strained. “It’s alright. It’s the stress. There are so many people in need and we need to be strong for Camelot. So, of course, we…. But we can’t. I love Arthur.”

Lancelot nodded, but there the corner of his mouth was turned down and Gwen couldn’t look at him. 

“I love Arthur... more than I can say. I love him.”

“You…” Lancelot hesitated. “You cared about me once.” 

Gwen shook her head and laughed disbelievingly. “You _left_. You left without telling me, without explaining why. You just vanished, without a thought of how I would feel.” 

“Of course I thought about how you would feel!” Startled by the sound of his own voice, he immediately lowered it. “I left because you and Arthur, you were… I couldn’t come between the two of you.” 

“But it’s alright to touch me like this now?” She felt like crying. Why was he saying this now? Why couldn’t he just let things be? She loved Arthur. She hadn’t always, that was true. But she loved him and he was gone and she just needed him to come back. Then everything would be alright again. 

Lancelot looked away and she could read the shame on his face. 

“There was nothing to come between then, not yet. We were slowly getting to know each other, but I wanted a life with you and you just left. You didn’t give me a choice.” 

“I’m sorry.” She shook her head and turned away, but he gently grasped her elbow and pulled her closer. “I am, Gwen. If I had known then what I know now, I wouldn’t have left.”

She blinked away the tears. “What you know now?” 

He carefully, tenderly, brushed her hair away from her forehead. “All my life, I wanted to be a knight of Camelot and now I am. But it means nothing. It means nothing without you.” 

She shook her head. The tears were threatening to spill down her cheeks. “Don’t say that.” She pulled away from his embrace. “Don’t say that.” 

“I’m sorry.” Lancelot pulled her back, held her elbows. “I know. I know that I shouldn’t. I’ve tried not to think about you, not to love you, but I can’t stop. I just can’t stop.”

She shook her head even while he lowered his mouth to hers, soft and gentle. His hands slipped from her elbows down to cradle her hips, holding her close. He deepened the kiss and her mouth opened so he could. Her fingers curled into his hair before she knew what she was doing and she kissed him then, really kissed him, desperately and completely, in a way she’d never kissed Arthur. Not even when they were hauling her away to her cell, not even then. His mouth was hot and wet on hers and she kissed him deeper, harder, anything to make it real, to make it more real than anything else was right now. 

“I can’t stop,” she whispered against his mouth. “I can’t stop.” She was crying and his hands moved to her back, her shoulders, to press her close against him. “I can’t stop thinking about you. When I’m alone, I think of you. When I work with Gaius, I think of you. Whatever I do, I think of you. I can’t stop thinking of you, wanting to be with you. But there’s Arthur and I… I do love him and I promised to be with him. We’ve been waiting for so long. But there’s you and I don’t -” She gasped loudly; a heaving sob working its way past her throat. “I don’t know what to do.” 

He held her close in the dark while she cried bitter tears on his shoulder. His own heart remained conflicted, torn between his duty to his king and his love for Gwen. The thought that she might be his future queen made him both proud and melancholy beyond belief. Yet all he wanted was to hold her close, to feel the soft, warm shape of her and to smell the soft scent of her hair. She was all that he held dear in the world, even being a knight of Camelot meant nothing to him if he couldn’t share it with her. It meant nothing at all. 

To Be Continued ….


	10. Chapter 10

The boy was passed out. He was lying half on the cot, his head sharing the pillow along with Pendragon’s head. If it wasn’t for Merlin’s pallor and Arthur’s feverish red skin, they would look like young lovers sleeping off the glow of sex. She shook her head to throw off the thought. Pendragon was sick and it almost seemed as if Merlin, who wasn’t a boy at all really, was ready to follow him through death’s door. The other one, the one whose name she didn’t know, had sat down in an armchair near the fire. He was staring at the two of them, the scowl on his face almost completely hidden by his hair.

She slowly descended the stairs. She’d drained the tub of all the water. There was a pipe directly connected to the backyard, all she’d had to do was pull the plug. She’d cleaned up the towels and the small wash basin with the shaving water. There was nothing more to do; time to face her guests. She gathered a log of wood from the pile and added it to the fire. A touch confirmed that Pendragon’s forehead was still burning hot to the touch. She mumbled the spell again, under her breath, but it wouldn’t do much good. Pendragon seemed to be beyond saving. 

“What’s your name?” 

The man in the chair looked up and his hair fell away from his face. “I’m Gwaine.” He paused for a minute, seemingly to study her intently and then said, “you’re Gloria, am I right? You escaped from Camelot’s cell, not two months ago.” 

“Yes.” She cocked her head sideways and gestured to Merlin. “We should move him to one of the other beds. I’m not carrying him up the stairs.” 

With a groan, he pulled himself out of the chair and went to help her. Together, they carefully pried Merlin’s hands away from Arthur and lifted him. They laid him down on the closest bed and tucked him in. He didn’t wake up. 

“He must be exhausted.”

Gwaine stretched. “We haven’t slept a lot and Merlin’s been using a lot of magic. That must be tiring.” 

“It is. He needs to rest.” She walked back to the workbench and started clearing up. She closed the tome and fixed all the vials and things until the space was completely cleared and she could go over it with a rag. Gwain went to the saddlebags he’d dumped by the door and collected the remains of the food he’d bought from the village. 

“Do you want some tea with that?” 

He looked at her suspiciously. “Will it be magic tea that won’t let me wake up in the morning?” 

She carefully placed the kettle on the workbench and poured water in it from one of the buckets. “I am no longer in the habit of killing people.” 

Gwain nodded, took a big bite from his slice of bread and mumbled, “Fair enough.” 

She raised her bottom lip in revulsion for a second and he grinned at her broadly, the food still stuffed behind his teeth. She carefully hung the kettle on the hook over the fireplace and once again checked Pendragon’s temperature. It was still too high, but she hadn’t been expecting any improvement. 

“’s he getting bttr?” Merlin was sitting upright, rubbing a hand in his eyes. His hair was standing up at the back of his head and his voice was raspy. 

She shook her head. “No, Merlin, he isn’t getting better.” 

Merlin looked so pale. She hadn’t known people could be that pale if they weren’t dead. He stood slowly and stumbled back to sit next to Arthur’s cot. He took Arthur’s hand in his and just sat there, until the kettle shrieked. She handed a mug to Gwaine, who handed her a plate with bread and cheese back. She handed the plate and a second mug of tea to Merlin. 

He set them on the floor beside him. “I’m not hungry.” 

“You need to eat,” Gwaine chimed in from across the room. 

“He’s right. If you want to sit up with Arthur until the end, you’ll need your strength.” 

He glared at her, but she was used to anger and resentment, being the bearer of bad news, and she didn’t flinch. She stared back until he picked up the plate and started taking small, resentful bites of bread and cheese. He even picked up the mug and took a sip, hissing when he burned his tongue. They sat in silence for a while, until Merlin was done and she took everything back to the workbench. 

“Merlin cares about him,” Gloria said softly, watching Merlin hold Arthur’s hand carefully. “Are they good friends?” 

Gwaine nodded and drained his mug. “They are. When I first met them, I didn’t understand how they could be, Arthur being a noble and all. But ah … They’ve gone through a lot together.”

She nodded and made some tea for herself since the water in the kettle was still warm. “What do you think of Arthur?” 

Gwaine stared at her. “He’s a good man. He doesn’t always listen when he should, but he always tries to do right by everyone. He’s my king and I’m proud to serve him.” 

“And Merlin?”

“Merlin is my friend.” Gwaine shrugged. “For a long time, he was the only friend I had.” 

She sat down on the other stool and quietly sipped her tea. “And Morgana? Where does she fit in?” 

Gwaine shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure. I know that she was raised as Uther’s ward, that she turned out to be his …. ‘natural’ daughter.” Gwaine cleared his throat. “By the time I was a knight, she’d already aligned herself with Morgause and tried to rule Camelot as rightful queen.” 

Gloria shook her head. “Arthur’s older than she is, even if Uther had acknowledged her as his daughter; her claim is invalid as long as Arthur’s alive.”

“Which is why she keeps trying to kill him,” Gwaine added. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious.” 

“So why so curious?”

One corner of her mouth turned up and let out a breath of laughter. “I want to know why Merlin has faith in Arthur. Why he is so devoted to someone who has killed hundreds of our people.” 

“I’ll tell you.” Startled, they both looked up to see Merlin standing right behind Gwaine. “I’ll tell you why I have faith in Arthur.” He rested his arms on the workbench and leaned forward. The skin around his eyes was red. “A few weeks after I became Arthur’s manservant, my mother came to Camelot. Some bandits were attacking Ealdor, my village. They were going to take everything; our crops, our livestock, everything. My mother had already gone to Cenred, our king, but he wouldn’t send any men to help us, so she went to beg Uther, who couldn’t do anything. If Uther sent a force to help us, Cenred would consider it an act of war and their already fragile peace would be broken. Uther said that he couldn’t risk his own people.” 

“I decided to go back to Ealdor, with my mother. My village was poor and none of us had any real fighting experience. We were all alone. And then Arthur came. He didn’t have to. We hadn’t known each other that long. I was just a servant and he was a prince. My village wasn’t even a village of Camelot; we belonged to his enemy.” 

“But he came and he taught us how to fight and he fought for us. I remember, the night before the battle, we all stood in a circle and he said that everyone there was equal. He said that we had chosen to take a stand. We were fighting for our right to survival, our right to grow crops and even if we died, it was something worth dying for. He was willing to die with us, for a servant, for people that weren’t his own, simply because it was the right thing to do. Since that day, my faith in Arthur has never wavered. Through the years, he’s become an ever better man and he will be the greatest king that ever lived.” He clenched his teeth and wiped away his tears. “If he lives.” 

Merlin didn’t know how to read the expression on Gloria’s face. She almost looked sad. Her mouth was slightly pursed and her eyes were downcast. Gwaine pressed his shoulder against Merlin’s, but didn’t speak. All Merlin could hear was Arthur’s ragged, raspy, shallow breathing, behind him on the cot. 

“The greatest king who ever lived?” She sounded doubtful. 

“He will unite all of Albion. He will let our people live peacefully in all the lands. He will make sure that there is liberty and justice for everyone, no matter who their station in life is. Peasants and nobles; it doesn’t matter to him. He cares about all his people.” 

“And you believe that Morgana doesn’t? 

“I believe that Morgana doesn’t know what it means to rule. Arthur knows that to rule the people is to serve the people, to put their needs first. Morgana wants to rule the people because she wants power. When she usurped the throne, she killed innocent civilians and she said she would only stop until the knights accepted her rule. She was willing to sacrifice the people she was supposed to protect to further her own power. She’ll bring magic back to Camelot, no question, but at what cost?” 

Gloria frowned and sipped her tea. The silence was pensive, thoughtful and Merlin felt that pang, all of a sudden, in his stomach. He looked back at Arthur and then back at Gloria. “Is there nothing else that you can do for him? Nothing at all?” 

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes briefly. “There might be something, but I’ve never done it before. I only know how to do it in theory, which is why I didn’t…. I saw my father do it once. He told me it was the second time he’d done it his whole life. It’s not something that you would do for just anyone. There’s no sacrifice involved, not in the way that the exchange of life demands, but it is very dangerous for the healer. It also requires a certain amount of skill and talent. I’m not sure I could do it.” 

“Maybe I could do it,” Merlin said, excitement curling in his belly. 

A burst of involuntary laughter was quickly contained and she shook her head. “No, you couldn’t. You might be talented beyond anything I have ever seen, but let me ask you. How long have you been training? How long have you been consciously attempting to master your gift?” 

Merlin shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “About five years.”

“I’ve been training since birth.” 

“I use magic instinctually,” Merlin argued. “Sometimes it even works better when I _don’t_ think about it, when I just ask what I want instead of trying to force it.” 

“Exactly, you can give it vague instruction but you cannot direct it specifically. This spell is very intricate. It demands precision.” 

“Perhaps you just tell us what the spell _does_ exactly and how it’s supposed to work. You two can bicker about it afterwards,” Gwaine interjected. 

“Right,” Gloria whispered and leaned back in her seat. “The druids theorized that life was created through the physical body and the mystical soul. When they are in balance they create a life force that keeps us on this plane of existence. Arthur is dying because his body is injured too badly to maintain the balance. His life force is diminishing and his soul is leaving his body, which is why at this point a direct spell would demand a sacrifice. The treatment that I’ve given him should work, but his body has been injured for too long. He’s dying too quickly.” 

She took another deep breath and said, “What my father did, what I think we could do, is connect my life force to his. My soul and my body are both healthy and in balance, I have an abundance of life force at the moment. If I share it with him, I might sustain Arthur long enough for my treatment to take effect and heal his body. Once he’s balanced again, our connection will sever.” 

“Why didn’t you tell us of this before?” 

“Because, as I told you, I’ve never done it before myself. Attempting to heal a patient without having ever attempted the treatment with supervision and noting all its effects can be extremely dangerous. And there are significant risks.”

“What kind of risks?” Merlin asked. 

“The spell could inadvertently damage both my own life force and Arthur’s. We would both die on the spot. It is also possible that even with my own life force tied to his, he will die before his body is cleansed of the infection. If that happens, we will both die.” 

“Could you use my life force instead?” 

Gwaine was already shaking his head before Merlin even finished speaking, but Gloria nodded thoughtfully. “I could, perhaps.” 

“You’re both completely serious.” Gwaine dropped his head on the worktop. 

“The spell will still be difficult and the risks are still the same. Not to mention that you’re not at full health at the moment. You’ve used a lot of magic. You’re tired. Are you sure you want to do this?” 

“I do.” 

She looked at both Gwaine and Merlin in turn and Merlin held his breath. He tried to look at her, the way he’d looked at Leon. She caught the weight of his stare and finally, nodded. She hopped off her stool. “Gwaine, go fetch some water.” 

“Gwaine fetch this. Gwaine fetch that. Always with the fetching,” Gwaine mumbled, but he obediently got up and grabbed a bucket by the door. 

“Is there anything I can do?” Merlin asked while Gloria pulled a small cauldron from a cupboard in the workbench and started pulling ingredients from the shelves. She gave him a root Merlin had never seen before along with a knife. “Cut this into small pieces, but they all have to be the same size.” 

He followed her instructions and watched as she ground seeds into powder and set out careful measurements of herbs with a bronze set of scales, also appearing from a cupboard in the workbench. Gwaine returned with the water and Gloria made him pour it into the cauldron before ordering him to put the cauldron on the iron rack over the fire. 

For at least two hours Merlin watched and only occasionally helped as Gloria brewed the most intricate potion he’d ever seen. Merlin had never seen magic used like this before; methodical and almost scientifically precise. 

“Add the ginzen root,” Gloria ordered and Merlin obeyed, carefully adding bit by bit while she slowly stirred clock-wise. The mixture was bubbling merrily and had turned a dark red shade, almost like blood, and a faint red mist hung over it. “Now, we let it simmer for the time it takes this hourglass to empty.” And she quickly turned the medium sized hourglass she’d procured, again, from a cupboard underneath her workbench. Merlin began to suspect she’d hexed the cupboards built into the workbench to be bottomless. 

“Gwaine, we’ll need some more water.” 

Gwaine glared at her, but obeyed, muttering under his breath. 

Gloria made Merlin drink three glasses of the cool water. “You need to be hydrated and three is a magical number; it’ll bring us good luck.” She also made him recite the spell over and over again until he knew it by heart. “It’s probably best if you recite the spell after me, to further focus the magic. I don’t want you to do anything else, just recite it, no magic. We don’t want to create opposing magical forces. That would just … kill all of us.” 

“All of us?” Gwaine asked. “I’m not even participating here.” 

“Oppositional magical forces are unpredictable. There’s no knowing what might happen,” Gloria said. “So, be sure to only say the words.” 

“Right.” 

When they pulled the cauldron off the fire and onto the workbench, the dark liquid looked just like blood and Merlin didn’t even want to know what it tasted like. Gloria used a ladle to scoop some of the liquid into two pewter goblets. 

“This looks right.” Gloria carefully sniffed the goblet. “It smells right too.” 

Gwaine made a gagging noise behind her and Merlin elbowed him in the side. He just shrugged. “I won’t be the one drinking it.” 

Gloria used the same cloth trick she’d used before to make Arthur drink the potion whilst Merlin, after swallowing the whole thing down in one go, carefully lifted Arthur’s head and sat down on the cot, settling Arthur in his lap, careful not to dislodge the maggots. Afterwards, he tried to slip away, but Gloria shook her head. 

“Hold him just like that. Physical contact might help.” She then twisted her wrist until the amulet slipped down and rested in the palm of her hand. Carefully she pressed it against Arthur’s forehead. Her other hand tentatively covered Merlin’s forehead as well. She had to stoop in an awkward crouch to reach the both of them, but she steeled her spine and didn’t allow herself to buckle under the strain. “Repeat after me, Merlin.” 

_Ūre blædas efengedæledon_

A fierce, white light erupted from the amulet, slipping between her fingers and the edges of her palm and lighting up the room. Her eyes glowed gold, but Merlin’s didn’t as he repeated her. 

_Ūre ealdorlegum ebrogdenum_

Merlin’s heart was pumping madly, but he had no breath to steady it as he said the words. 

_Andstendeaþ Ūs_

The second the words passed his lips, he felt something inside him jerk and wriggle, as if it was crawling out of him. He bit his lip to stop from crying out as his spine seemed to bow away from his flesh. He could feel his body move but he could say nothing and he would have fallen off the edge of the cot if Gwaine hadn’t caught him. The last thing he saw was the wide-eyed look on Gloria’s face, lit up by the sudden glow in Arthur’s skin. 

To Be Continued….


	11. Chapter 11

Merlin was afloat. Something tugged at him every once a while, pulling him down. He didn’t know where the pull would lead him. So he resisted, struggled until the tug stopped and he floated back up again, back, back, back into his own body. He could feel his arms and his legs, but they felt heavy and so did his head, similar to the way he felt after a night of drinking. He wondered if he could call out to Gaius; bring him a hangover cure in bed. But he wasn’t in Camelot was he? The cot felt all wrong. Merlin’s matrass was thinner and his sheets were scratchier. His head began to pound and he groaned, turning, until he could bury his head in the pillow. 

“Merlin?” 

A big, warm hand on his shoulder shook him softly. Another hand was on his hip, urging him to turn around. He groaned and groggily cooperated, turning his head to the direction of the voice. 

“Arthur?” 

“Not Arthur I’m afraid.” The voice said again and Merlin managed to blink open his eyes despite the muck that seemed to have accumulated on his eyelids. 

“What?” He slowly sat up and the blurry shape in front of him settled into Gwaine. As he rubbed the gunk from his eyes, the memories settled back with a blast like a sledgehammer to the head. He took a deep breath. “I’m still alive.” 

“So you are,” Gwaine said and stood with a groan from where he’d been crouching over Merlin. 

“And Arthur?” Merlin threw off the blankets and stood too, staggering when his heavy limbs couldn’t carry him. 

Gwaine caught him and snorted inelegantly under his breath. “See for yourself.” 

Slowly, they limped over to where Arthur was resting on his belly. The maggots had been removed and Merlin could see the red wounds spread all over Arthur’s back. They were no longer bleeding; just simple red strips. The skin at the edges was no longer angry with infection and the sores themselves were no longer weeping the vicious yellow liquid. The bruises were still there, but fading into green and yellow. Arthur’s hair looked greasy, but was no longer sweat soaked. His breathing was gentle and deep, like the sleep of true rest. Merlin carefully had Gwaine lower him down onto the floor and he laid his palm on Arthur’s forehead. His temperature felt normal and his skin was dry. Merlin wanted to cry again. 

“It worked,” he breathed in relief. 

“It did.” The sound of her voice came from the workbench, where Gloria was pouring hot water into three cups. She was wearing a new dress: a dark red, but in the same style, and a white underdress with cap sleeves. She wasn’t wearing the belt this time, but the black amulet was still wrapped around her wrist. Her hair was pulled together in a bun at the back of her head instead of a braid. When she looked up at him, her face was tired and worn, but there was a soft, satisfied smile Merlin had never seen before. She looked happy. “I’ve never used magic like that before. It was amazing.” 

Merlin laughed and stroked his hand through Arthur’s hair. “We’ll have to wash him.” 

“That can wait,” Gloria interjected. “I don’t want to put him in a tub with those injuries just yet. Come here; eat something. You have to regain your strength.” 

“Can’t I just…” 

“No, you’re not eating on the floor again.” 

Merlin stood awkwardly and Gwaine helped him hobble over to the workbench. Two plates, each with a few rashers of hot bacon and a slice of bread covered in cheese, along with cut up berries waited for them. Two earthen mugs with tea wafted steam into the air. He sat down and carefully tucked in until a grinding noise made him look up. Nimbly, Gloria plucked a couple of maggots from a bowl, put them in her mortar and carefully grounded them down. His face settled into revulsion without his permission. 

Gloria caught him looking and caught his gaze. “Oh please, don’t be a baby.” 

“What?” Gwaine looked up too. “Oh Gods! We’re eating breakfast here.” 

She glared at him. “If you don’t like it, there is the door.” She released her mortar long enough to point. “You can eat your breakfast outside.” 

“I might as well. I’ll probably have to fetch water soon anyway,” Gwaine snarked. 

Gloria smiled dangerously. “Now that you mention it…” 

Gwaine glared. “I’m finishing my bacon first.” 

Gloria shrugged and sipped her tea. “The horses will probably need some feeding too.” She picked up the mortar again and continued. “These are the maggots that cleaned up Arthur’s skin. They did an amazing job. Now they’ll help the blood coagulate over the wound, with a little help to speed that up, of course.” She smiled that smile again and Merlin smiled back without thinking about it. They finished breakfast and while Gwaine went outside to fetch more water, Merlin watched as Gloria fixed up another potion. “This is just a precaution, to make sure that the infection is gone completely and I don’t want him waking up just yet. He needs to stay on his belly for a little while longer and most patients find that very uncomfortable.” 

She helped him move back to Arthur’s cot and he sat on the floor while she carefully sat next to Arthur on the cot. She fed Arthur the potion and this time he seemed strong enough to swallow on his own, reflexively. She distributed the powdered maggots all over the wounds and frowned. She murmured something to herself and then shook her head. 

“What?” Merlin asked. 

She shook her head again. “Nothing, I just want to make sure that the infection has cleared completely.” 

He watched her work in silence for a while until she turned to look at him. “So, you never told me what exactly happened to him.” 

“Morgana hired mercenaries to kidnap him from Camelot and to bring him to the Isle. We managed to track them with this amulet they left behind.” He pulled the amulet from beneath his shirt. He was still wearing it. She wiped her hands on her apron and accepted the amulet. 

“I’ve heard of them. They’re very notorious in the magical community. They use spells to increase their endurance and speed. It’s very unhealthy. People who join die young from the side-effects, but they die wealthy, so more people join them… especially in times as desperate as these. You should destroy this. They might come back for it.” 

Merlin took it and nodded. “How do I do that?” 

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not well versed in magic outside of what I do.” 

“I’ll figure out something.” Merlin turned the amulet over in his hand and stared at the creatures locked in combat. “Anyway, we followed them to the isle where we found Morgana whipping Arthur. The large wound that worried you so much - Arthur probably got that trying to fight off the mercenaries.”

“So how did you find me?” She asked. 

“We stopped at a small village near the river and asked if they knew of a healer. They said your cottage was around here somewhere, half a day’s ride away.” 

She nodded. “I think I know the town. There are still followers of the old ways there. The villagers would have known you wouldn’t be able to find me on your own.” 

“We wouldn’t have?”

She shook her head. “This is hallowed ground. The cottage is built on the remnants of a temple druids of my clan used for worship, long ago. You can’t find this place, unless you’re looking for it.” 

That explained why neither Gwaine nor Merlin had ever stumbled across it during any of their travels, even though the both of them had been sure they’d passed this very clearing several times. He looked back at Arthur. 

“Do you know how long it’ll take for him to recover?” 

“A full recovery will take quite a while.” She stood and wandered back over to the workbench. 

“Well, how long until he’ll be well enough to travel?” 

Her smile dimmed. “Why? Does he need to be somewhere?” 

“Mercia sent an army to invade Camelot the day Arthur was taken. Camelot is at war. Arthur’s needed.” 

She shook her head. “He needs time to recover.” 

“That doesn’t matter. As soon as he wakes up, he’ll want to leave. When he finds out that his people are in danger, he’ll go off to fight for them, injured or not. Arthur cares about them a lot more than he cares about himself. His people need him.”

She sighed. “He’ll be well enough to sit a horse the day after tomorrow. But I can’t promise that he’ll be well enough to fight.” 

Merlin shook his head. “That’s fine. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I’m sure Leon will be able to hold them off that long. He’ll have to.” He carded his hand through Arthur’s hair and didn’t notice the way Gloria went still and quiet. “You hear that, dollophead? Two more days and then we’re leaving. You best be ready.” 

Gwaine wandered back in and set down the bucket by the door. “Alright, seeing as I’ve been up all night, I’m going to take a nap.” 

He headed for one of the beds, but Gloria stopped. “See the second door on the landing. You can sleep in that bedroom. It’ll be quieter; I’ll be a bit busy down here.” 

Gwaine yawned. “Oh thank the Gods.” He stretched and nodded at Merlin. “You want to take a nap too? I’ll help you up the stairs.” 

Merlin shook his head. “I’ll just sleep down here. I don’t mind. I don’t want to leave Arthur.” 

Gwaine hesitated but eventually shrugged and trudged up the stairs. Gloria helped Merlin up and settled him in the bed closest to Arthur. 

“You sure you don’t need any help?” 

Gloria smiled. “I doubt you’ll be much help in the state you’re in. You need rest even more than Gwaine does. I’ll just be cleaning up dishes and preparing some more herbs. If you’re going to war a lot of men will be wounded. I’ll make some potions against infections and fevers you can take with you. It’s not much, but they’ll pack a bit of a punch.” 

“You know, I think that secretly you’re actually a good person.” 

“I know. I think I forgot for a while.” 

Merlin yawned. “I’m not sure Arthur will want to take magical potions with him.”

She grinned. “Then we won’t tell him.” 

Merlin grinned back, but he was already nodding off to sleep and didn’t feel Gloria’s hands carefully tucking him in. She shook her head and went to check on Arthur, who was doing better than expected. She passed a hand over the powdered wounds and muttered a spell underneath her breath. 

Everyone else in the house slept on while she carefully set a large cauldron bubbling. She opened one of the windows to let out the smell and let some fresh air in. When there was nothing else to do but let the potion simmer she sat back down in one of the armchair with a book on her lap. Gloria was born in a time of war, but could remember nothing of it. The cottage stood on hallowed ground. It had belonged to her family for ages and it kept her safe, but her father had often insisted on travelling beyond it, to help people where they could and so she could get a healer’s training. They had snuck around, hiding from guards and simple townsfolk who were too afraid of Uther’s wrath to shelter them without betraying them. 

All she wanted was a peaceful life and peace for her people. Morgana’s messages had spread to every witch and warlock still hiding away in Camelot. Her words were filled with promises and whispers of a new, glorious age where the Old Religion would once again take its proper place in the world. They would worship the old gods and cast out the new one. They would butcher those who had butchered them. They would retake the world and shape it in their image. Most of the druid clans had turned away. They did not believe in violence and Morgana’s path was paved with it. Others had joined her; those too angry to hold on to their pacifist beliefs. 

Gloria came from an old druid family. She had clansmen who lived behind the wall, but she did not know them. All she had known was her father, who was not a druid himself and had married into her mother’s clan. She hoped for peace, but realized the practicality of violence. She understood it, feared to experience it, and was unafraid to use it. She had used it. She had killed: violently and painfully and she had done much worse besides. 

_Her magic reaches out and changes his memories, changes who he will be even when she can still feel his hips underneath her thighs and the searing heat of his mouth on hers._

Her knuckles clenched white around the edges of the book and she forced herself to relax. Her time in Camelot had been a violent one. She was not sorry she had tried to kill Uther. His death would only bring more peace in the world, but she was sorry for the things she’d done there. She was sorry for the people she had hurt. Helping Arthur Pendragon paid off her debt to Merlin and perhaps, giving over the potions would be a small start to do the penance for the wrongs she had done. Arthur Pendragon had not yet proved himself to be a good man; not to her. But she was beginning to believe he could be. If Merlin was right, if his kingdom needed him and no one else, if he was the hope of Albion, then she had to stand by him, even if she did not yet know where she stood. 

To Be Continued…


	12. Chapter 12

Elyan was the son of a blacksmith. He had grown up watching his father working in the smithy, working hard like an animal to earn mere scraps compared to what the court’s blacksmith earned. Tom’s work had mostly involved fixing horse shoes and carefully casting pots and pans. His real passion had been swords and armour and during tournaments he could earn some extra money by making or fixing the equipment of visiting knights. The court’s blacksmith was always too busy to take on all the extra work on those days. Elyan used to sit in his father’s workshop and watch him smash the hammer against a hot iron time after time. Later, when he’d held the massive tongues in place for his father, he’d dreamt of a better life. He wouldn’t mind working hard as long as it paid enough to support his father, his sister and any girl he might marry in the future. He’d left Camelot pursuing those dreams, his sister’s disappointed glare in his back. He’d tried to explain to her that it wasn’t about being rich or earning money easily without the work. It was about making a life for yourself, about finding something better than toiling away for money that would barely pay the rent, never mind food and clothes. 

But never in his wildest dreams had Elyan ever thought he would wind up here. The fog covered most of the abandoned battlefield where Leon and King Bayard stood: two desolate figures surrounded by wisps of cloud. Their respective escorts were all at least three feet away, close enough to hear the cadence of their voices and see the colour of their cloaks, but far enough away not to pose a threat to either of them. Elyan’s fingers were curled around the hilt of his sword, but his grip was so tight he wouldn’t be able to draw it. The morning cold seeped into his bones and joints, still weary from yesterday’s battle. He hadn’t slept all night, the horrors of war spinning through his skull until at last, he’d fallen into red-smeared dreams close to dawn.

Percival was standing next to him, not quite as stiff but with equally heavy bags underneath his eyes. The battles were weighing on the men, even such a man as Percival, and Elyan didn’t know how many more assaults Camelot’s army could stand. Leon had never seemed worried in sight of the men, but Elyan and Percival had seen his eyes trace the lines on a map hundreds of times, had seen him stare towards Camelot, as if hoping to see Arthur’s banner appear over the distant horizon. Leon hadn’t seemed surprised at the request of parlay after Camelot had managed to resist Mercia’s second assault. He had looked relieved though, after the messenger left. It was comforting to know that the Mercian army didn’t have limitless resources and fresh men either. They were probably taxed just as hard as Camelot was. Elyan certainly hoped so, because if Mercia had reinforcements coming, he had no idea what Leon could do to hold them off. 

He could see Leon shaking his head and Bayard made a swift, cutting motion with his hand and Leon shook his head again. Percival shifted his weight and Elyan turned to observe the tense line of Percival’s shoulders. It was their first campaign as knights and Elyan had never seen Percival this tense or worried. They’d all travelled and had their own troubles and had learned how to fight the hard way, but fighting on a scale like this was like nothing Elyan had ever seen before. Men were dying by the dozen, screaming on the field and of injuries turned gangrenes before they’d even left for Camelot. He shuddered at the thought and pulled his cloak closer, clutching the ends together. 

Finally, Leon was nodding and then he and Bayard shook hands, carefully turned around and walked away from each other. Both Percival and Elyan straightened and Elyan didn’t take his eyes off Bayard or his entourage to make sure they didn’t stab Leon in the back. It seemed like something they would do. Leon looked serious, as always, but his hands weren’t clenched into fists anymore and his gait was firm and confident. He silently motioned for them to mount their horses and Neville quickly offered him the reins of his black stallion. They rode off without speaking, the loud clacking of the hooves too loud for conversation anyway. 

The Camelot encampment looked sad and depressing. The wounded had been gathered in one group and several carts were being prepared for their transport back to Camelot. Most of the men who’d accompanied the previous convoy of wounded for security had returned and would be staying on the battlefield. A new security regiment was being selected from the battle-weary men to offer them some light duty for relief. The other half of the encampment was covered in dark smoke from the small fires they’d lighted to cook their dinners. The men were dirty, covered in mud and sweat. They were all tired, some sleeping and others nodding off during their dinner. Leon handed the reins of his horse to one of the grooms. Percival and Elyan did the same and followed Leon into his tent. 

They spent two minutes taking off their cloaks and settling down on Leon’s small, rickety cot while Neville passed around a bottle of crude, but warm wine. Elyan managed not to cough through his mouthful. 

“What did you agree on?” Elyan asked. 

Percival took the bottle from him and took a sip. Leon rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension there before taking the bottle from Percival and drinking half of it down. 

“He’s agreed to a temporary truce. Enough time to transport the wounded and clear up most of the dead.” 

“How long?” Percival asked. 

“Four days. Enough time for me to go back to Camelot and return in time for the truce’s end. I can talk to the council, maybe convince them to pressure the lords in the south to send more men. Maybe by then Merlin will have sent a message to Camelot about Arthur’s whereabouts.” 

Percival was nodding, but Elyan felt something cold gather in his stomach. “What if there isn’t a message? What if the south lords don’t send men?” 

There was silence and Leon shrugged. “I don’t know. We can’t hold Mercia off without Arthur or without the south lords. We can’t. We’ll be overrun. Villages will be plundered, people will die and when winter comes, the crops will have been destroyed and people will starve to death. So will their children. Eventually, Camelot itself will be overrun. Most of the nobility will be fine, they’ll just switch allegiances, pay some gold to Mercia and their properties and rights will be respected. The common people will be made an example of. To show what happens when you cross Mercia.”

They were silent and Elyan didn’t know what to say. He suspected that neither Neville nor Percival knew what to say either. He couldn’t image Camelot not being Camelot. He couldn’t image its people kneeling to a man like Bayard. He couldn’t imagine that any woman, man or child of Camelot would choose to surrender. Elyan couldn’t imagine surrendering either. He couldn’t imagine laying down his sword for anyone but Arthur. Arthur had made him a knight, trusted him to defend Camelot, and trusted him to fight until his last breath. Elyan didn’t think he’d known what that meant until now, until the destruction of Camelot, its people, its crops, its laws and customs was so close. 

“We won’t let that happen.” 

Leon looked at him, the expression on his face as calm and collected as always. He seemed to be appraising Elyan and Elyan resisted the urge to stand and straighten up in the face of Leon’s steady nature. 

Leon nodded. “You’re right. We won’t. No matter what happens, we’ll keep the people of Camelot safe. We’ll evacuate the city if we have to. To the south of Camelot, there’s the fortress Tintagel. We’ll have the people go there for their own protection if necessary. We’ll hold Bayard’s forces as long as we have to, until Arthur returns.” 

The resolution in his face made Elyan’s stomach twist up into his heart and he nodded, wishing he had a glass of wine he could toast with, as Leon’s words deserved. He looked around the tent to see the other’s reaction. Percival’s face looked like what Elyan imagined his own looked like; determined and terrified at the same time. Neville looked much the same, only paler and his boyish frame was shaking lightly. Elyan remembered Neville had fallen to his knees and vomited during the battle. He was still here though, carrying sword and armour, and that proved it all really. There was nothing they wouldn’t do for Camelot. 

Elyan looked back at Leon, only to find Leon had been watching him quietly. He nodded. “Alright, we need to check our provisions and make sure that the wounded have enough protection to carry them to Camelot.” He rolled out one of the maps tucked away in the corner of the tent. “I’ll be riding out with the wounded to Camelot before nightfall. Neville, you’ll be coming with me.” 

“Are you sure, Sir? Couldn’t I be of more use here, Sir?” Neville asked. He was holding tightly to his sword. 

Leon shook his head. “You’re my squire, Neville. I need you by my side. We’ll be returning to battle soon enough, if you’re worried you’ll miss out.” 

Percival chuckled and even Neville smiled weakly, but Elyan seemed to have lost control over the muscles in his face because he couldn’t smile at all. Leon’s eyes cut at him and then he pointed back to the map. 

“I’ll be taking the regular route back to Camelot, cutting through the forest and entering Camelot from the North Gate. We’ll bring back some supplies, but we should take the time Bayard gives us and forage for any possible food on this side of the river: forest herbs, any kind of meat or bread. Percival, you’ll be in charge of foraging. Remember: we need to feed an army.”

“What about the coming winter?” Elyan asked.

“If we defeat Bayard, he’ll have to pay for damages caused during the battle. That will include enough food or money to purchase food to feed our villages for the coming winter. Right now, holding the river is our first priority. Elyan, I’ll leave that in your hands. We have to hold this shore.” 

“Me?” 

Leon nodded. “Yes, should Bayard break the truce, which you must keep in mind as a possibility, someone needs to oversee the battle. Someone needs to make sure that the troops stay in control of themselves, that any holes in our defense are plugged immediately and that the men know when to advance or retreat. Percival,” Leon smiled, “is worth three soldiers on the field of battle. We need him to focus on killing the enemy. Elyan, you’re the only here who can focus on the wider picture.” 

His fingers traced the river. “Whatever happens, Elyan, you need to hold this shore. If Bayard attacks, you need to meet him. If you can advance and take the river, take the opposite shore, you should, but only if you’re absolutely sure you can gain the shore without walking into a trap or losing it later.”

Leon tapped the river with his hand and then released the map. It quickly rolled up on its own. “Percival, you should ready a party and try to hunt down some meat before sundown. Fresh meat for the evening will boost morale. Neville, make sure we’ll have everything for the journey back to Camelot. Elyan, walk with me.” 

They left the tent and Elyan obediently followed Leon to the line of horses. Leon’s black stallion had been groomed carefully and was chewing some grass. The beast seemed completely at ease and Elyan wondered when exactly his own life had become more complicated than simply having a roof over his head and food in his bowl. 

“Leon, are you sure?” 

Leon chuckled and patted his horse’s flank. “Tell me what you will do when I’ve left the camp.” 

Elyan watched as Leon’s stroked the horse’s snout and said, “I’ll arrange for a night guard, several shifts. I’ll take the first myself and ask Percival to do the last one, before sunrise.” 

“Why not take the last one yourself?”

“Percival will be coming back from the hunt. He’ll be exhausted and it would be best for him to get some sleep. He’s an early bird anyway. Last shift is easier on him. I’ll still be fresh when the first shift comes around.” 

Leon nodded. “And what will you do tomorrow?”

“I’ll make sure that the picket lines are observed during the day. I’ll also send out a skirmish force to Cadorn Afan to make sure that they’re not lying in wait for us. Then I’d gather the dead, build a pyre and have a service to remember their spirits.” 

Leon nodded. “You’ll be about 2000 strong when we leave. What will you do when Bayard attacks?” 

“I’d leave 700 men in the camp, for fresh reinforcements. Bayard has been sending out his entire force continually. He wants to crush us quickly. If we can hold the shore and tire him out at the same time, we’ll give him a sound beating when we bring in 700 fresh men after the battle’s lasted a while.”

“Would you advance on the enemy?” 

“Only if I was absolutely certain his retreat would be far enough for us to hold the shore comfortably. If he tricks us into crossing the river on his terms, he could drive us into it if he were to have a fresh force. He’d use the river as the anvil to crush us against. I’d only advance if I was certain I could drive Bayard back into Mercia.” 

Leon smiled. “I’m sure, Elyan.” He motioned for one of the grooms to ready his horse for departure and then indicated for Elyan to follow him. They walked in silence to where the wounded were gathered and Elyan desperately thought of something, anything to say that would change Leon’s mind. Elyan was the son of the blacksmith. What would he do with an army at his command? Leon stopped still and so did Elyan. 

“I think you should consider taking a squire, when all of this is over. There are a few eager pages we left behind in Camelot. You could take on one of them.” 

Many of the knights had been encouraged to take squires when they were ready. Only those too young or inexperienced had not been asked to take on a young boy and neither had Elyan. He knew that Gwaine had been asked to take on someone, a young boy named Terence. Leon already had Neville by the time Elyan had returned to Camelot and suddenly been knighted. Lancelot hadn’t made his selection yet while Percival seemed to hesitate between two boys named Gareth and Gaheris. 

“A squire?”

Leon shrugged. “You seem ready for the responsibility.” 

“I doubt that Arthur would agree.” The words left his mouth without so much as a by-your-leave. They were true though, despite Arthur’s faith in Elyan’s ability and despite Arthur knighting him and honouring that promise after Elyan was no longer needed; despite all that, Arthur did not have a great trust in Elyan’s sense of responsibility. Although, to be fair, Elyan must admit that Arthur had not had great reason to do so. 

“He will agree. When he returns and sees you, as I do now. He will agree.” Leon clapped him on the shoulder. “War makes men out of all us. We set aside our fears in light of what is more important. We might get sick all over our adversaries when the screaming begins, but we pick up our sword again nonetheless.”

The hand dropped away as Leon went to help the wounded settle into the carts. Elyan followed him, but his thoughts were scattered. Had he changed so much in the last few days? Had he changed so much that Leon would entrust him with a squire, an army and the fate of Camelot? Had he changed so much that neither Percival nor Neville objected to Leon’s trust in him? Had he really changed that much? 

Perhaps Leon was right. War made men out of everyone. 

 

To Be Continued


	13. Chapter 13

Elena had never been this tired. Her arms felt weak and flabby, as if she had no bones to move them with. Her legs threatened to buckle with every step she took and the skin around her eyes felt dry and fragile, like old paper scrolls stuffed in old libraries. Her strength seemed to be fading by the hour and even picking up something as light as a spoon taxed her almost beyond tolerance, as if she was attempting to shift a mountain closer to the sea. Her hand shook with exhaustion as she lifted the spoon to the soldier’s mouth. Her fingers clasped the handle tightly. She no longer looked at her hands. The skin around her fingernails was red and cracked. They were almost rubbed bloody. One of her knuckles had a cut in it and she couldn’t remember how she got it. They were wrinkled and pruned from the water and endless ointments. They looked like an old woman’s hands. 

The apron she was wearing to protect her most plain dress was covered in brown and yellow spots along with streaks of dark soot. Her hair felt disgusting. She hadn’t combed it through with water in forever; she was either too tired, sleeping, eating or helping someone. She raised another spoonful to the soldier’s mouth and he calmly took it. He was just a young boy with an old man’s face. Elena wondered if she looked like an old woman now too. She wondered if all this horror and pain had changed her forever. She could not imagine ever being Lady Elena again, singing and dancing and laughing. She could only imagine this moment, dragging on and on. She’d be tired, cold and alone forever. She wanted to cry, but Elena had to be strong and so she was. 

She fed the soldier the last of his soup and then helped him lay back down. She covered him with a sheet and told him to sleep while his eyes were already drooping. The stump that was left of his arm moved fractionally, as if at the edge of sleep, he’d forgotten he’d lost it in battle. Elena smoothed the blanket down again and took a deep breath to stop herself from crying. She picked up the tray and went back down to the castle kitchen. The air felt heavy and dejected. Cook was already laying down ingredients for dinner. With so many mouths to feed, the meals took ages to prepare and distribute. Elena didn’t know what they would do if more wounded arrived. 

“You alright, my lady?” One of the serving girls asked. She looked pale and tired. 

“Simply tired, Jane. I’ll be fine.” 

The maid curtsied and Elena didn’t say anything against it. Some servants had dispensed with curtsies and ceremonial greetings, but others seemed to cling to them all the more as if the traditions provided some comfort. Elena let them do as they pleased. 

“Is there anything else I could do?” Elena asked. 

Jane lifted a basket of bread rolls from the floor. “Cook asked us to distribute these among the men patrolling the battlements. Most of the knights missed dinner because they were resting, but they need food as much as any man.” 

“Very well, I suggest that you start with the North Gate battlements and work your way east. I’ll start at the South Gate and go west.”

“Sounds like a plan, my lady.” 

Elena did not sway under the weight of the basket. Her knuckles were white on the handle, and she had not expected a basket of bread to be so heavy, but she did not sway. She made her way up the stairs to the battlements and if she had to put down the basket every few steps and pause to catch her breath, there was no one around to see it. 

The sun was high and bright overhead and it decided to shine right in Elena’s face as she left the corridor and stepped onto the battlement. She did not curse out loud, because she was supposed to be a lady, and instead hefted the basket higher so she could rest the edge against her hip. The soldiers seemed grateful for the rolls and accepted them gracefully. Elena did her best to smile and seem cheerful, to let them know she appreciated their hard work and protection. 

“Lady Elena, thank you.” 

It was red-haired Amadis de Gaul, the knight errant who’d fought Sir Percival and lost. He’d been impressive though. If Elena remembered correctly he’d been fighting in green and grey colours, although she couldn’t remember now what country or county he hailed from. She was not aware he’d stayed behind in the city when the news of war had been announced. Most knight-errants had left, so had the knights of Carleon and the knight of Ban. In hindsight, it was obvious why Mercia had not sent knights to the tournament.

“Sir Amadis, I thought you had left Camelot, like Sir Benjamin and Sir Kaliraj.” 

“Not so, my lady. I offered Sir Leon to use of my sword in the defence of Camelot when the news came. I am not sworn to any king or lord, so I am free to fight where I will.” 

Elena put the basket down on the ground and allowed herself this short break, only briefly, just a moment. 

“Then I must thank you, as will the people of Camelot, as I am sure Arthur will thank you when he returns.”

Amadis smiled and Elena could see that he was quite handsome. His skin was pale and he was tall and wiry. He had good teeth and his eyes were kind. They crinkled at the corners. Some said that people with red hair had been kissed by the devil at birth and would prove treacherous. Some said they used magic to enslave others to their will. Elena could not believe it. His smile was all the kindness in the world. 

“Would you still thank me so courteously if you knew that I had other motives than the well-being of the people of Camelot?” 

Elena resisted the urge to look at her hands. “It would depend on the reason. If you fight only for your own glory, you would not be worthy of your knighthood. If you fight only to catch Arthur’s eye and become a prestigious knight of Camelot, I assure you, he will see through you.”

“I see… And if I told you that I fight for love, would that be a good reason?”

“Is it not the most noble of all reasons?” 

“Is that why you fight?” 

Elena laughed. She could not help herself. “I’m a lady, Sir. I do not fight. I have never picked up a sword in my life.” 

He shrugged and leaned back against the stone battlement. “There are more ways to fight than with the sword, my lady. Do you not care for the wounded? Do you not feed them? Do you not bring us bread when we sorely need it, even if leaving this task to others would bring you a few precious minutes of sleep? Do you not tear up sheets for bandages or hold a young boy’s hand when he cries for his mother as he lies dying? Do you think that all so little? Do you not think that it is a way of fighting, of protecting the people, of raging war against your enemies?” 

Elena looked out over the forests. There were mountains in the distance. Could she cross them? 

“I think that I care for the people and the soldiers. That is how I bring them some measure of peace, no matter what shape. I do this to care for the people, not to rage war on my enemies. What enemies do I have? What are enemies? Young boys and men who fight for a king; a king who does not deserve their sacrifice. Why would I rage war against them?”

She looked down at the pale rock. “Yet, it does feel how I imagine fighting must feel. I am fighting disease and death. I did not know how hard it was to care for people until Gwen showed me how.” 

“If I may ask, my lady; why did you not go home?” 

His voice was soft and gentle. It almost felt like a caress, the way Gwen had rubbed her back between her shoulder blades to smooth away the tension. Elena should make sure that she and Gwen sat down tonight and shared a meal and some wine and had a full night’s sleep. 

“I am waiting for a man.” The words thrilled her as they tumbled off her tongue. She’d never said them before. She’d never admitted her secret to anyone. “I am waiting for a man to return to me.” 

Amadis’ eyes were soft and gentle too, like his voice. Elena had been right; his smile was all the kindness in the world. “So am I.” He grinned. “Does it shock you, my lady?” 

She looked at him. “Is not love the most noble cause in all the world?” 

They were silent together for a while. The mountains looked so very far away. She could not bear to dwell on it. She picked up the basket again. The other knights needed their bread too. Distributing the rolls didn’t take much longer and she found herself thinking of Amadis. There were two old knights in her father’s service. They had never wed, neither had mistresses nor any known natural children. There were rumours that in the time of the old ways, they’d openly told others of their love, had held hands and even kissed in sight of the court. When the old ways were driven out and the new religion took its place, men could only lie with women and they had been forced to hide their love behind the veil of friendship. They had been kind and gentle men, honourable and courageous. She wondered if they might have carried each other’s favour into battle. 

She returned the empty basket to the kitchen and returned to the great hall. Most of the servant girls were quickly stripping the tables of sweaty and dirty linen and replacing them with clean, freshly washed sheets. Gwen was gathering most of them in a massive bag. Elena helped the girls strip the tables and mattresses before returning to the kitchen to help serve dinner. Cook had made some mashed potatoes and a stew with small pieces of beef and greens. It took quite a while, even with all the girls helping, to feed all the soldiers and when the girls were almost done, Elena left them to it so she could join Gwen in the lower levels. 

In the lower levels, massive washing tubs had been installed alongside several large hearths used to heat the water for the tubs. Most of the clothing, linen, curtains and other things used in the citadel were washed in those tubs. Gwen was already stirring the soapy water with a large wooden rack used to turn the clothing. Steam was rising from the water and Gwen’s face looked damp while her curls grew frizzy in the hot air. Elena went to help and Gwen patiently showed her how to fill the tub, add the soap and dirty linen, how to stir properly and how to scrub out the more stubborn stains when the water had cooled some. Elena thought her arms might fall off. 

“I’m not used to this kind of work,” Elena said, feeling foolish and young when Gwen seemed so experienced and grown up. 

Gwen smiled. “Don’t worry, neither am I. I mean, I do this kind of work often, but not in this kind of quantity. You’re holding up very well for a noble woman … Not that noble women can’t do this kind of work, it’s just, I mean, it can be hard if you’re not used to it and obviously you’re not used to it. I don’t mean that in a bad way! I just, I mean-” She took a deep breath and seemed to gather herself. “You’re doing very well, Elena. I don’t know what we’d do without you and I’m very glad you’re here. You’ve done so much.” 

“So have you, Gwen. Thank you. I was wondering… Do you know if Lancelot has received any word from the battle front or … any place else?” 

Gwen looked down into the tub. “I haven’t spoken much with Lancelot.” 

“Oh, I was under the impression he was walking you home each night.” 

Gwen nodded. “Yes, that … that is true. No message has arrived, though, as far as I am aware.” 

Elena nodded and quickly changed the subject. The dejected look on Gwen’s face felt too close to her own emotions and she didn’t want to remind Gwen that their loves were so far beyond their reach. 

“I was hoping you would like to dine with me tonight,” Elena said. “I think a quiet meal and a good night’s rest would do us a world of good.” 

Gwen nodded. She did look tired. There were heavy bags underneath her eyes, which were rimmed with red as if she’d been crying. Her hair was as greasy as Elena’s and her perpetual cheerful smile was gone. She was wearing a similar apron to Elena’s, also stained with various fluids Elena would rather not think about right now. 

“Cook’s stew seemed particularly appetizing and I know that she always keeps a few bowls on the side for us. I think it would go lovely with some mashed potato or some bread rolls and I don’t know about you, but I feel like I could eat a horse.”

Gwen’s smile was brittle, but real. “That would be lovely. Thank you. I don’t suppose, I mean, I don’t like to intrude, but do you remember your offer of letting me sleep in your chamber for the night?” 

Elena did remember and she also remembered why she’d made the offer in the first place. “I do, yes.” 

“I know I refused, but would you mind if I accepted your offer this night?” 

“Of course I wouldn’t mind, Gwen. Do you know, when I was little I used to climb into my nanny’s bed, before Grunhilda replaced her. But, if you don’t mind my asking, why have you changed your mind?” 

“Lancelot has many duties in Camelot and none of them are walking me home at night. He has other responsibilities. I think it would be best if he no longer walked me home. I would … I would prefer it if he remembered his duty as I remember mine.” 

Elena very carefully did not frown. “Your duty?” 

Gwen wouldn’t look at her as she carried a pile of wet linen over to the drying racks. “My duty is here, in the citadel, with the people and with Arthur, not with Lancelot on dark streets.” Her voice was wobbly as she snapped the ends of the white sheet to smooth out the wrinkles when she hung them to dry. 

Elena left her washing to soak in the tub and joined Gwen by the drawing racks, gently taking a sheet from her. She made sure to look Gwen in the eyes. “Gwen, you must know that you can speak to me about anything. I consider you my friend and hope that you carry a similar sort of affection for me.” 

“I do. You have been nothing but kind ever since you came to Camelot. I have the highest regard for you.”

Elena put down the sheet. “Then, perhaps I can help with whatever troubles you so.” 

Gwen shook her head and picked up the sheet Elena had put down. “Letting me stay with you is the most generous of offers.” She hung up the sheets as she talked and nervously smoothed it down again. “I cannot tell you more and I’m sure that you’ve already guessed most of the story anyway.” She snapped the ends of the blanket to smooth out the wet wrinkles. “When Arthur returns, I will speak with him, but until then, I cannot….” Her eyes closed to stop the tears from coming. “I cannot. I will not shame Arthur like this. He deserves better, both from me and from Lancelot.” 

Elena didn’t say anything more. She simply helped Gwen put up the laundry. When they were done, they gathered two bowls and a few rolls of bread and retreated back to Elena’s chambers. A few candles were burning, but no fire had been lit. They ate their meals by the window and when they were finished, they blew out the candles one by one so they could hold each other in the dark. 

To Be Continued….


	14. Chapter 14

Arthur’s injuries were slowly clotting. Thick crusts had formed over the wide stripes, except for the big one cutting into Arthur’s right shoulder. Crust had formed around the edges, but most of the cut was still red and moist. Gloria had frowned at the sight of it, but had simply smeared a cream around the edges to dull the pain and help speed up the healing process. She hadn’t said anything and Merlin decided to ignore the frown because Arthur was going to live and that was all that mattered. At least, that’s what he thought until Arthur woke up. 

His blue eyes fluttered until they slowly opened and Arthur blinked, coming to full consciousness. He seemed to take in his surroundings for a second or two before struggling into a sitting position. Merlin hurried over to help and to reassure him that they were in a safe place but Arthur snatched his arm out of Merlin’s grip and struggled upright on his own, despite the sweat gathering on his brow at the effort. His face was stone cold and the corners of his mouth turned down and tight. He didn’t look at Merlin as he surveyed the walls. 

“Where are we?” 

Merlin resisted the urge to wring his hands because obviously something was very _wrong_ , but instead he simply said, “Somewhere safe, I promise.” 

Gloria was nowhere in sight for the moment. She’d gone outside to tend to her vegetable patch and gather some seeds from the flowers at the front of the house. Merlin hoped she stayed away for a minute longer and he could break the news to Arthur more gently. Arthur wouldn’t be happy to know that Merlin had taken them to the house of a convicted witch who’d tried to kill his father. He’d be even less pleased to hear that said convicted witch had saved his life. 

Arthur still wasn’t looking at him. He seemed to be staring intently at the workbench. Merlin looked over and realized that several herbs, vials and crystals were scattered over the counter top from when Gloria had been brewing several healing potions. They’d already stuffed one of the saddle bags full with them. 

“What happened?” Arthur’s voice was hoarse and it did something to Merlin’s insides. 

“You don’t remember?”

Arthur finally turned to look at him, but it did nothing to calm Merlin’s nerves. “I remember _everything_ that happened at the Isle, _Mer_ lin. What happened after that?”

Merlin licked his lips. “Well, I …. You were badly hurt so we had to find a healer. A village near the river; they said we could find one here. She’s nursed you back to health. How does your back feel?” 

Arthur rolled his shoulders and frowned. “Numb. How long?” 

“Three full days. This is the fourth day. It’ll be dark soon. That’s almost eight days since you were taken from Camelot.” Merlin put his hand behind his back to stop himself from carding them through Arthur’s hair, to check his temperature by touching his forehead. 

Arthur slowly stood from the cot. “That’s not what I meant.” He took a step away from Merlin when Merlin reached out to help him. “I meant, how long have you been lying to me?” 

At first, he really had no idea what Arthur was talking about. “What?” 

“I suppose it must have been from the start. I mean, even you’re not enough of an idiot to start using magic _after_ you became my man servant. So you must have been using it _before_. That’s almost four years; four years of lying to my face every day.” 

The breath caught in Merlin’s throat and he couldn’t say anything. His brain simply refused to process what Arthur was saying. He couldn’t comprehend what was happening. This _couldn’t_ be happening, not now, not after everything. His breath finally left him in short, shaky bursts and his chest felt too tight to expand properly for a new breath. 

“That’s even longer than Morgana. She kept us all fooled for nearly a year and that was impressive enough. I had no idea you were such an accomplished liar.” Arthur’s face twisted and Merlin hadn’t known Arthur could actually look ugly. “What does your mother think of that?” 

“Don’t,” Merlin coughed. “Don’t talk about my mother.” The panic was building in his stomach and his limbs were paralyzed. He’d known that he’d have to tell Arthur one day and sometimes he’d hoped that Arthur had always known but chosen not to say anything, or maybe Arthur would just know one day, but not like this. This couldn’t be _happening_. 

“Why not? She must have known. I went to Ealdor to help her and turns out, she was lying to me too? And Will? He wasn’t a wizard at all, was he? He was covering for you, because you were the one who called the wind to fight Kanan that day. Who else has been lying for you? Who else knows?” 

Arthur was clearly racking his brains, thinking, thinking and when his face twisted into a snarl Merlin felt like cowering. 

“Gaius! Of course he knows. He covered for you, when the witchfinder figured it out. And Lancelot! The Griffin couldn’t be defeated without magic. So you must have helped him. Who else?” 

“Gwaine.” 

Arthur looked as surprised as Merlin that he’d finally found his voice. 

“I told Gwaine because I had to use magic to find you.” 

“So two of my best knights are committing treason as we speak. Anyone else? Percival and Lancelot are close friends. Did Lancelot tell him? Leon doesn’t know. _He_ would have told me. How about Gwen? Does she know? You’ve been close friends ever since you came to Camelot. And Elyan? He’s Gwen’s brother, if she knows she might have told him. How many people close to me have been conspiring against me from the beginning?” 

Arthur was shouting and Merlin instinctively shouted back, because he never took Arthur’s shouting silently. 

“No one else knows! And I haven’t been conspiring against you! I’ve only ever used my magic to help you! To protect you!” 

Gloria stepped through the door at that exact moment. 

Arthur started laughing, loud and close to hysterics. “Really? Her? Protect me by taking me to a murderous witch when I’m at my weakest? How long have you known her? Were you two conspiring together to kill my father?”

“I was the one who told you she was going after your father!” 

“An excellent cover! You must have been so disappointed that she hadn’t finished the job before we got there!” 

“Are you even listening to yourself? If I really was out to kill your father I could have done it years ago. I would never hurt your father or you. You have to know that.” 

“Oh, really? Do I?”

“You know me, Arthur.” 

“No, I don’t, not really. I’ve never really known who you are,” Arthur spat. “You’re nothing but a -”

“We really don’t have time for this.”

Merlin’s head jerked up the upper landing where Gwaine was leaning against the balustrade. 

Arthur’s entire face turned red. “Shut up, Gwaine!” 

“You shut up!” Gwaine shouted back and Merlin could hear Gloria make a snort of derision near the door. “Look, you can be angry and distrustful of Merlin later. Right now, we have a war to get ready for.” 

The words seemed to stop Arthur in his tracks. “What?” 

Gwaine descended the stairs. “Mercia’s sent an army to raze the villages near the border. We don’t know exactly what’s going on, but when we left Leon was riding out to meet them. At least seven days ago, the army of Camelot had to ride to war without its king or its prince.” 

Arthur looked pale and absolutely gobsmacked. He visibly gathered himself together and gritted his teeth. “Who’s leading the army?” 

“Leon. He’d planned to leave in the morning with as many men as possible. I think he decided to leave Lancelot behind in Camelot with a small, defensive force.” 

“We need to leave right away,” Arthur said and it seemed as if he was ready to climb unto his horse without shirt or armour or weapons if need be. 

“You can’t leave like this,” Merlin argued. 

“Then find me some clothes! Find my armour, a sword, anything.”

“You can’t. You need to rest some more,” Merlin said and tried to reach out for him. 

Arthur flinched away. “My kingdom needs me and I don’t need to listen to the likes of you.” 

“Merlin’s right.” Gloria was carefully moving closer. “You’re not well enough yet. Just look at yourself. You can barely stand. At least one more night, preferably two.” 

Arthur gritted his teeth and looked at the determined faces of both Gloria and Merlin. Gwaine stood at the foot of the stairs and shrugged his shoulders, as if to say ‘just go with it.’ He bared his teeth. 

“I don’t need to listen to any of you! I’m the prince of Camelot and if I decide that I want to leave, I’ll leave.” 

“Arthur please, just listen to me!” 

“I’ve listened to you enough, Merlin, for all the good it’s done me. You must have brought horses. Where are they?”

“That’s enough!” Gloria’s voice was harsh and demanding. For a minute she sounded just like the angry, spiteful creature Merlin had encountered in The Singing Hedgehog. The silence that came after was completely unnatural. The whole room was silent. Even the crackling of the fire seemed mute and Merlin felt like if he even tried to speak, the cottage itself would punish him. For the first time he was uncomfortably aware that they were in a holy, magical place tied closely to Gloria’s family and heritage. How much power did the cottage have and how much influence did Gloria wield over this place?

“You need to rest and I need to take another look at your injuries. Sit down.” 

“I’m not letting you near me,” Arthur hissed, stepping back again. 

“Arthur, please,” Merlin said. “She’s been treating you ever since we brought you here. You can trust her.” 

The look on Arthur’s face hit Merlin like a punch in the gut. 

“Like I’m supposed to trust you? All that bollocks about how you would never lie to me, how we were friends, how I could trust you with anything.” 

“You can! I’ve never done anything to-”

“Never done anything except lie to me! You knew! You knew how much Morgana’s lies had …” He seemed to choke on the words and he shook his head. “You’ve never been anything except a sorcerer from the start!” 

A log of wood in the hearth cracked in half loudly and the noise startled them. They jumped and the shower of sparks forced Arthur to stumble away from the hearth. The only one who remained unimpressed was Gloria. Resolutely, she stepped forward and grabbed Arthur’s arm. 

“You _will_ sit down and let me look at your wounds. I’ve dealt with far more stubborn patients than you, Arthur Pendragon.” She pushed Arthur down on to the cot and although he tried to stand firm, he was obviously too weak to resist her strength. 

“I’m not letting you touch me.” 

“I’ve been touching you for days now, you idiot. Either you let me look at you or you can leave right now, lose consciousness and fall off your horse in two hours time and only the gods know what will happen to you then.” 

Arthur reluctantly agreed, his shoulders drooping and Merlin could tell that he’d been holding out only because he thought he had to and not because he thought he could. 

Gloria raised her eyes to look at Merlin. “Merlin, could you please see to the horses? Gwaine, there’s a large jar of ointment on the workbench, could you fetch it for me, please?” 

The abrupt reversal of roles wasn’t lost on Merlin and he wanted to protest, but Gloria very clearly shook her head at him. Dejected, he grabbed the bucket from the door so he could fill it with water for the horses. He cast one more look at Arthur, who was staring stubbornly at the floor, and with a sympathetic pat on the back from Gwaine, he left the cottage. 

Gwaine, in the meantime, obediently went to fetch the ointment. Gloria made Arthur sit down sideways on the cot, one foot resting on the floor and the other one resting on his thigh. Gloria sat down next to him and checked the injuries. 

“I’d prefer it if you slept on your belly through the night. Tomorrow, you could slowly start testing the muscles, but I’m worried that you’ll re-open the cuts. A second night would help them heal better.” She traced the edges carefully before applying more ointment. 

Arthur didn’t respond, but when he felt the cold touch of an amulet on his skin, he twisted away. “No magic.” 

“Four more nights, in that case.”

He twisted further so he could look her in the eyes. “What?” 

“With magic to speed up the process, two nights. Otherwise, at least four more before I’d let you ride a horse.” 

Arthur glared at her and she scoffed. “What? You think you’ve recovered from massive injuries like yours in three days without the use of magic?” She snorted. “If you only knew.” 

“If only I knew what? Seems like there’s a lot everyone knows that I don’t.” 

She glared at him. “Don’t be a child.” 

Arthur wanted to hit her, but as a rule, he didn’t hit women, so he just gritted his teeth. “I need out of here as fast as possible.” 

Gloria motioned for him to turn around again. “Magic it is.” 

Gwaine snorted, but Arthur ignored him and turned away again. The cold touch returned, Gloria whispered something odd underneath her breath and then, a hot spike of pain burst through him. He gasped for breath and he could feel Gloria’s hands on his shoulders, so small and yet so strong that they held him up so he wouldn’t fall face first into the matrass. The pain faded, but the heat didn’t. The ointment seemed to heat his skin until it began to itch terribly. He automatically reached back with his hand to scratch at it but Gloria released his shoulders and slapped his hand away. 

“I know it’s uncomfortable, but don’t touch it. Let it do its work.” 

She stood from the cot and gave Gwaine a stern look. “Keep an eye on him. If he turns pale, or looks like he might faint or something call me immediately. Don’t let him scratch his back.” She went to the bench and started compiling ingredients into a small bowl. 

Gwaine watched her for a second and then turned back to look at Arthur, who had turned around again and was frowning at him. Gwaine shrugged. “Don’t look at me. Merlin told me seven days ago and he only told me because we had to use magic to track you down. Although,” he shrugged, “I’m not gonna lie. I probably wouldn’t have told you even if I did know.” 

Arthur glared at him. “You’d commit treason against your prince.” It was more of an accusation than a question. 

Gwaine shrugged. “Merlin has done more for me than anyone else ever has. The only reason you made me a knight in the first place is because Merlin trusted me. I’ve seen what Merlin does for his friends. I’ve seen what he does for you.” 

“What he does is _lie_ to me.” 

“And die for you,” Gwaine countered. “I’ve seen him risk his life for you again and again. There’s no knowing how many times he’s done it using magic when no one was looking. Not to mention that he stays around, to help you, even though staying in Camelot is practically suicide. Without him, you’d be dead by now.” 

“He _lied_ to me. He might have been using magic to save my life but what else has he been doing?” 

“Do you really trust Merlin that little? I thought you were friends.” 

“He was my only-” Arthur abruptly broke off and looked away. He stared into the fire. He looked wretched and tired. Gwaine reminded himself that Arthur had almost died and that he was still recovering because otherwise he’d try to knock some sense into his prince.

Gloria returned and thrust a goblet underneath Arthur’s nose. “Drink this.” 

“Will it turn me into a toad?” Arthur snapped. 

“I’m hoping for a rabbit, actually. I can kill and eat that.” She grinned widely, her white teeth suddenly stark bright in her face. 

Arthur simply glared and accepted the goblet. 

 

To Be Continued…


	15. Chapter 15

Merlin stayed out with the horses as long as possible. He fetched them fresh water and climbed up into the hay loft so he could throw down fresh hay. He cleaned out their stables using magic because he didn’t want to reek of manure and groomed the both of them. The horses could obviously feel his agitation but the rhythmic motions of the brush calmed both the horses and Merlin. Eventually, dusk was setting in and he knew he couldn’t put off the inevitable any longer. He’d have to go in and face Arthur. 

He’d wanted Arthur to know his secret for a long time now. He’d wanted Arthur to know about the magic. He had wanted to share it with Arthur; show him how amazing and wonderful it could be. He’d thought about telling Arthur one day, when Arthur was king and they were alone at night, right after dinner. He’d thought about Arthur finding out by accident and being too amazed and grateful at Merlin saving his life to be angry. He’d thought about how Arthur had maybe known all along, or at least had found out early on because although Merlin tried very hard, a part of him was aware that the only reason he’d managed to keep his secret for so long was through sheer luck. However, in all of his dreams and quiet fantasies, Arthur had always been understanding and happy for him. In retrospect, Merlin didn’t know why he’d been so completely unrealistic. 

He nearly stumbled and fell on the stairs in the dark, but managed to step into the cottage in one piece. The whole room was empty except for Arthur, who was sitting on his cot, staring at a bowl of stew put on the floor in front of him. The fire in the massive round hearth had dimmed and only a few candles near the work bench were lit, but Merlin could still clearly see the spoon resting in the bowl, waiting to be picked up. 

“Her cooking’s very good. I guess she’d had a lot of practice with all the potion-making and stuff. It’s not poisoned, you know. If she wanted you dead she could have just let you die.” 

What the hell was he even saying? His voice sounded foreign to him, like it was speaking without his permission. 

Arthur looked up and Merlin steadied himself so he wouldn’t look away from the completely blank expression on Arthur’s face. It was the same look Arthur had worn for weeks after Morgana’s betrayal, as if his whole being had turned into a rock so he wouldn’t have to feel the hurt of it. When he was riding out to confront Uther about his mother’s death, he’d had that exact same look on his face. Merlin had never though he would ever make Arthur look like that. 

“You need your strength,” Merlin said and with a sigh, Arthur picked up the bowl and started eating. Merlin was grateful Arthur didn’t just throw the bowl at him. He kept his distance and sat down on the cot next to Arthur’s, closer to the door. 

Arthur finished the stew quietly and Merlin quickly took the bowl from him. Arthur didn’t even look at him and there was a tight feeling in his chest. He wanted to curl up in a ball and cry. He wanted to get angry and shout and throw things. Instead, he walked over to the workbench and left the bowl on the countertop. He’d wash it, but there was only one more bucket with cool water left that he might have to use for drinking water and he didn’t feel like leaving to get another bucket of water. He should have filled and brought the one he’d used for the horses’s waterhole but he hadn’t thought of it at the time. 

“Are you just going to ignore me forever now? Sure, it’s a step up from the shouting but even you’re not enough of a prat to just ignore someone forever.” 

Arthur slowly got to his feet and the storm brewing in the grinding of his teeth and the twist of his mouth should have been enough to make Merlin cower behind the workbench, like any sensible person would do. But Merlin was angry and he’d never been in the habit of cowering from Arthur anyway. 

“Calling me names now? Do you even know how much trouble you’re in?” 

Merlin laughed and the small part of him that actually had survival instincts shrunk away in fear. “What are you going to do to me? Are you going to sack me? Are you going to arrest me? Execute me? Kill me?” 

Arthur’s face was pale now, in the low light of fire and the single candle on the workbench. 

“Is that it? Are you going to kill me, Arthur?” Merlin didn’t know when he’d gone from angry to sincere. “Are you going to kill me?” 

“Stop,” Arthur said. Merlin stopped and Arthur stared at him, pale and stony. “You can’t ask me that.” 

“Why not? It seems like a valid concern, you’re not exactly afraid of executing witches or sorcerers.” 

Arthur made a noise through his nose, like an angry horse. 

“Are you going to sack me? Banish me from Camelot? Put me on the pyre? What would my mother think of that?” Merlin asked and he was taunting Arthur now, trying to get a response because Arthur’s rage flared scorching hot, but brief, and Merlin had no idea what to do in the face of Arthur’s quiet anger. “You were so keen to talk about my mother before, let’s talk about her. What do you think she’ll do when you tell her you’ve executed her only son?” 

“Shut up!” Arthur shouted and Merlin could deal with shouting, at least. “I should execute you! Camelot’s laws are very clear. I should, for lying to me all these years, _pretending_ to be my friend, for being a sorcerer. I should!”

“But you won’t,” Merlin said and he didn’t know why he was so sure, only that he was. Arthur would never put him on the pyre. Arthur might sack him, banish him, send him back to Ealdor to be a farmer for the rest of his life, but he’d never put Merlin on the pyre. 

Arthur was trembling, exhaustion creeping in, and his face turned a sickly pale while sweat gathered at the edges of his hairline. He slowly lowered himself back unto the cot. “No, I won’t,” he sighed and he sounded tired and bitter, like he couldn’t even believe his own words. He looked up at Merlin and the moment seemed to stretch into forever while Arthur stared at him, as if he was trying to _see_ the magic buzzing underneath Merlin’s skin. But you couldn’t see it. Merlin knew that you couldn’t tell if someone had magic just by looking at them. Arthur had to know that too. 

“Do I really look that different?” 

“No, you look _exactly_ the same.” 

Merlin couldn’t bear to look at Arthur’s face anymore. Instead, he searched through the cabinets to look for a clean bowl so he could ladle some of the stew into it for himself. Arthur just watched him, pale and quiet until he eventually manoeuvred himself belly-down on the bed, face buried in the pillow. Merlin quietly ate his stew and, very deliberately, didn’t think about how neither Gloria nor Gwaine had come running at the sound of all the shouting. He finished his food and blew out the candles before lying down on one of the cots. He’d always been by Arthur’s side and he wasn’t going to leave now just because Arthur was being a massive knob. He turned his back to the fire and to Arthur and closed his eyes. 

“Valiant’s shield, that was you wasn’t it?” Arthur’s voice seemed to enfold him in the darkness and Merlin shivered. “He’d hidden them all throughout the tournament. It makes no sense he’d reveal himself for what he was in front of the whole of Camelot, in front of my father.” 

“Are you really going to go through every single day that we’ve known each other, just to see if I did anything magic?” 

“I’ll have to, won’t I? When was a victory mine and when was it yours? When were you being sincere and when were you lying? I don’t know. I don’t know _anything_.” 

“You know me.” 

Arthur snorted and Merlin held his breath so he didn’t have to feel how tight his chest was getting. His hand was pressed against his stomach, but the squirming beast of his emotions couldn’t be felt against his palm. He turned back so he could look at Arthur’s head, the light of the fire flickering off his hair. 

“I am who I’ve always been. I’m Merlin, just Merlin, just a servant.” 

“Just a sorcerer servant who’s been using magic behind my back.” 

“If you could just get your head out of your arse for five minutes, you’d see that I’ve only ever used magic to help you.” 

“Get my head out of my arse?” Arthur’s voice sounded like Arthur might explode, it contained so much outrage. He manoeuvred himself up on his elbows so he could glare at Merlin. 

“Yes! I’ve been using right in front of you for all these years and you never noticed! I tried to be careful but sometimes I thought you must be wilfully ignoring things. If at any time in the last four years, you’d opened your eyes and actually _looked_ at me, you would have _seen_ me for who I really am!” 

“So now it’s my fault? It’s my fault that I didn’t guess that my manservant was a sorcerer?” 

“Considering all those times I saved your life and managed to cover it up with the flimsiest of excuses, yes!”

“Really? Okay, let’s start at the beginning. Valiant’s shield!”

“Fine! Valiant’s shield _was_ magic! I just … helped him reveal it.” Merlin turned angrily in the sheets. Leaning on his belly, he glared at the back of Arthur’s head through the shadows. “And after that there was …” Was the afanc first or the bit with the magic hussy who wanted to sacrifice Arthur to gain entrance to the world of the Seethe?

Arthur settled back down and didn’t look at him. Merlin was forced to look at the way the light of the fire flickered in Arthur’s golden hair. The sight caused his stomach to twist for all the wrong reasons and he wished he wasn’t so desperate for Arthur to turn around. 

“Do you even know? Can you tell me? Can you tell me all the times you’ve used magic?” 

“No,” Merlin bit out. “But I can remember all the times I’ve killed for you, all the times I saved your life, all the times I almost died for you, willingly.” 

Arthur turned his head to look at him and even though his motion was restricted because he couldn’t get up, the movement still radiated so much anger that Merlin had to fight the instinct to flinch back. “Why then?”

“What?”

“Why did you save my life all those times? You’re a sorcerer! Why didn’t you just let me die?”

“Because I-“ And Merlin couldn’t speak anymore because he couldn’t even think the truth, never mind actually say it. He stared at Arthur, his mouth slightly open, unable to speak. He wetted his lips and said, “Because you’re my friend and I’m yours.” 

Arthur narrowed his eyes and turned his face away again. “Right, a friend who has been _lying_ to me for years, a friend I don’t really know. What kind of friend is that?” 

“I’m sorry. I’ve wanted to tell you for years.” 

“Why didn’t you?” Arthur’s voice was low now and Merlin couldn’t tell whether or not he still sounded angry. 

“I almost did, in Ealdor, but my mother said I shouldn’t and so I didn’t because I was starting to understand how much Camelot and your father meant to you. I didn’t want to come between that. I couldn’t leave and I couldn’t tell you the truth, so I just kept lying.” 

“I guess that must have been easier.” 

Merlin lay back down and turned away from the fire too. It was easier to stare at the play of shadows across the wall instead of the back of Arthur’s head. “No, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done; harder than all of the things I’ve had to do.” 

Arthur didn’t say anything and in the stillness of the room it was almost as if Merlin was all alone with the crackling of the fire. When he closed his eyes and concentrated he could faintly hear the reassuring sound of Arthur’s breathing, too measured and deliberate for him to be asleep. Merlin inhaled and let out a deep sigh. 

“I’ve done a lot of things that I never thought I’d do. I’ve killed people and I’ve buried both my best friend and my father. I’ve lied to you so many times about so many things that I’ve lost count. I can’t even remember all the times I’ve lied to you. I didn’t want to, but I _had_ to, Arthur. I had to. I know you don’t understand, but I had to. I didn’t feel like I had a choice. I don’t know what I’d done different if I knew then everything I know now, but at that time it seemed the only way.” 

He thought about the time he’d told Arthur that the vision of his mother had been fake even though he hadn’t known for sure. He thought about the time he’d given Morgana poisoned water to drink because a dragon had told him to. He thought about those few times that Arthur had shown him that he was a trusted friend and he’d just stood there, knowing full well that he was lying. He thought about how he’d put the poultice under Tom’s pillow. He thought about Leon, still suffering nightmares from that night at The Singing Hedgehog. 

With another deep breath, Merlin began to talk. He entrusted the darkness with all his secrets and his lies, his pains and his triumphs and hoped that Arthur would listen long enough to understand or at least withhold judgement from all of Merlin’s mistakes. He doubted that Arthur could forgive him for all of it – could forgive him for his mother and Morgana and his father and all the pain and the fear. But if Merlin was to ever stand side by side with Arthur, now was the time to come clean and tell all. Their friendship might survive all those years once, but they wouldn’t twice. 

In the darkness, Merlin told his story and kept talking until he was hoarse and even then he kept speaking because if he didn’t say it now he never would. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have at some point, because from one moment he’d closed his eyes at the end of it all and the next he’d opened it to sunlight streaming in from the windows and a tight-lipped Arthur watching him as Gloria held him upright and spread salve on his back. 

To Be Continued ….


	16. Chapter 16

The sky was a clear blue; so clear and bright that it hurt your eyes just looking at it. Puffs of white cloud drifted past the sun and Gloria couldn’t believe that in some field, far away, near a river, people were most likely fighting and dying in droves. Gwaine had sat down with Arthur whilst Merlin had gone out to chop firewood and now Gloria stood in the open doorway as she listened to their low voices. They spoke of supplies and men and expected losses. Somewhere, underneath the same summer day sky, Leon commanded an army to fight for Camelot. But here, in the glade of her cottage, the birds were chirping and a gentle breeze ruffled the grass in front of her steps. The air was clean and beautiful. 

“And Gaius?” 

“Stayed behind to prepare for the wounded. Leon wanted him to come to the front, to set up triage, but Gaius is too old for the front-line.” 

She heard Arthur grunt as he shifted and the skin around his injuries must have pulled at the crusts or maybe he jarred his arm. She’d wrapped it in a sling this morning, to take the weight off his damaged shoulder, but he could have taken it off when she wasn’t looking. It wouldn’t surprise her.

“That’s at least two days travel, with carts and wounded. Too many men could die or become infected in the meantime.” 

“Gaius is too old for quick evacuation if the front line can’t hold. It’s too dangerous. Camelot is the best place for him and there was no one else. Merlin was the only one who could find you, he had to come with us.” 

Arthur snorted. “Even then he’s not much of a physician.” 

“Merlin does more than you give him credit for.” 

There was a second or three of stony silence. “So it would seem.” 

“Arthur-“ 

“What else do you know about the war?”

“Nothing. We haven’t been in contact with anyone in Camelot or the battle front since we left to find you.” 

“Eight, no, nine days; anything could have happened. The army could have been defeated. Percival, Elyan and Leon could have died.” 

Gloria descended the stairs into the glade and rounded the banister to step into the garden. She needed to gather some herbs and flowers. She still wanted to fill at least one other saddle bag with potions that would help. If they couldn’t take a physician with them, they could at least take Merlin and she could show him to use them. She gathered a few flowers and the sap from the cut stems stained her hands. She wiped them on her apron and clenched them loosely in her fist. From the back of the cottage, she could hear Merlin’s chop-chop-chopping of wood. 

She went back inside and ignored Gwaine and Arthur as they abruptly stopped talking. She put the flowers down on the workbench and cleared it off the remains of herbs and crystals. She tidied the remains of breakfast and magicked the plates clean. The flowers, she put on a cutting board and she used a knife to tease the seeds out of the crown. There was a cauldron already bubbling over the fire and all the doors and windows were open to let out the fumes. 

It was almost like any other day; the bubbling of the cauldron and the sooth rhythm of potion-making. She couldn’t hear the sound of Merlin’s chopping anymore and Gwaine and Arthur were so quiet she could almost imagine herself alone, like any normal day. Now, her cottage was filled with strangers who didn’t like her and didn’t trust her and would burn the magic right out of her if they could. The anger didn’t surprise her anymore but she put it aside for now. 

She ground down the seeds of the flower and then carefully checked the recipe in the big tome. She wasn’t used to making blood-replenishing potions. Mostly she dealt with natural sickness, a broken leg here and there, but hardly ever injuries that wasted blood until the body could no longer sustain itself. Potions could be tricky and she ended up going back outside to consider how to best pull out the blue bell-shaped monkshood with the root fully intact. She carefully waded into the flowerbed and crouched down. 

There were slow, careful footsteps on the stairs, like someone afraid to fall or stumble. She didn’t look up and carefully curled her hand around the flower stem instead. She could hear it when his feet hit the grass and she could feel the heavy weight of his gaze on her. She was not going to look up. 

“I want you to come with us.” 

She looked up; the flower forgotten. 

“Us?”

“Merlin, Gwaine and myself.” 

Gloria straightened from her crouch. “Merlin’s going back with you then?” 

She could see him gritting his teeth. “Of course he is. Where else would he go?” 

She shrugged. “I don’t know. He must have come from somewhere, must have family willing to take him in. I wasn’t sure he’d go to Camelot with you, after the magic?” 

“Merlin _will_ come back with me.” 

She rolled her eyes and looked back at the flower. “You expect him to just walk into Camelot so you can put him on the pyre? And you expect me to do the same?” 

He shifted his weight and the sign of unease made her look up again, but his face was still and hard as stone. “No one will be put on the pyre, you have my word.” 

“And the word of a Pendragon means so much to me that I will risk my life over it.” 

She smiled and she could feel her lips curling back over her teeth, more like a snarl. Arthur took a deep breath and shook his head. 

“I know that you don’t trust me or my father,” 

“You say that as if I don’t have a reason,” she interjected. 

“ _and_ that to you, my words mean nothing.” His face looked comfortable when it was annoyed, like he was used to it. 

“Nothing, like dirt.” 

“ _But_ ,” he stressed and it seemed as if he thought his argument became more valid the louder he raised his voice. She wondered how many times he won an argument like that. “You have saved my life and I will not repay such kindness with betrayal. I promise you on my honour as a knight and a prince of Camelot, that I will safeguard your life should you choose to come with us.” 

He was like an earnest puppy, Gloria thought, too earnest and desperate to be a murdering bastard. But his father had been a handsome man in his youth, so they said. 

“Why would you even want me in Camelot?” 

He shifted his weight again and it dawned on her that he might be not be uneasy with _her_ per say, but more uneasy with this decision to take her to Camelot. 

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” she asked him and his face crunched up like he was on the verge of shouting or huffing or doing something very un-princely-like. 

“My people are dying!” His shout was not as un-princely-like as she would have thought. He glared at her for a full ten second and then took a deep breath, visibly settling himself. Gloria wondered if Merlin could hear them, from round the back of the house. Arthur looked out over the peaceful clearing and then looked down at his sling. With his other hand, he softly fingered the fabric. 

“Gwaine told me I was dying. That the cut one of the mercenaries gave me had become infected even before they gave me to M-Morgana ” – he pretended not to notice when he stumbled over the name – “and that what she did to me, with the whip, was bad enough on its own. He didn’t think I’d live to see Camelot again.” 

“You wouldn’t have, not without me or my magic,” she said because she wanted him to remind him what exactly saved his life. To his credit, he didn’t flinch. At all. 

“You are an exceptional … physician.” 

“Do you take offense at the word ‘healer’?” 

He gritted his teeth and for the first time since the start of their conversation, she felt a little mean trying to provoke him. He was injured and if last night’s shouting had been any indication, a whole lot of upset. He was injured and upset and a puppy. He was an injured and upset puppy. She maybe wanted to kick him in the ribs despite all of that. 

“No, but I did take offense at you trying to kill my father and using one of my best knights to do it.” His voice was harsh and scolding and she felt a bit like a naughty child. It made her angry. 

“Well I took offense when your father had my father and my mother burned to death.” 

For a second she could see his heart pumping his clean blood steadily through his veins. She could see the delicate network of arteries spreading out thin and spider-like to other vital organs. It would be so easy to reach inside and leave something dirty behind. Infect his heart, spread it to the rest of his system and he’d be dead within hours. 

The spell didn’t work after all. It was such a shame. I really thought he was out of the woods, Merlin. I thought he’d be fine. I was wrong. These things happen. 

When she blinked, the spidery veins were gone and she was looking into his eyes instead. He was recovering. He was going to be fine, completely fine. She breathed out and relaxed her hands when she noticed she’d curled them into fists. Wilful, her father used to call her, wilful with a big temper. 

“My father did what he thought was best.” But even when he said it, his face was still and smooth, like he was hiding something. “All I know is that you saved my life when other _healers_ would have decided I was a lost cause.” 

“Camelot has a great physician, but he’s too old for battle. I need someone to take care of the wounded at the front lives. I need someone to save the lives of my men, of Camelot’s men. Merlin’s training remains incomplete and right now, Camelot’s position is….” 

“Precarious,” she offered, because she knew well enough that the vultures were already circling. She’d been one of them, after all. 

He nodded. “Yes, precarious. I cannot afford to lose more lives. If Camelot’s striking force was halved and other kingdoms banded together, all of this could be lost.” And he motioned towards the clearing, to the villages and the fields beyond. She knew what war looked like; burned down crops and smoking hovels. Raped women lying like dead flies on the roadside and thin, abandoned children wandering the country side looking for scraps. The men would be dead already by then, killed first in the wave of conquest. 

“If Camelot falls, my people will suffer. Already, wives have lost their husbands, mothers their sons, children their fathers.” 

She wanted to kill him for using that against her. 

“I need someone, anyone. I need the most powerful healer of the land on my side.” 

“Even if I use magic?”

“Even then.” 

She looked away and wondered if Merlin was eavesdropping on them, or if Gwaine could hear them from inside. She looked back at him. “How desperate are you?” 

“Desperate enough to grant you a full pardon for all of your crimes and guarantee a safe passage back home when all this is over.” 

“And Merlin?” 

His face twisted into something ugly, like she’d touched a nerve. “What is Merlin to you?” 

“I owe him a debt. Saving your life would have repaid it, if he hadn’t been the one risking his life in the process.” 

“Merlin will come to no harm, not because you ask it of me but because he….” He stopped talking and Gloria decided she could be magnanimous, if she felt like it, so she let it go. 

“What would a full pardon mean to me? I am safe here and I have powers beyond your ken. I don’t need your guarantee of free passage. I don’t need your pardon.” 

His eyes became flinty. “If you’re willing to let people die just because there’s nothing in it for you, then you’re not half the healer you think you are.” 

There was nothing she could say to that. 

“And going to Camelot will give you an opportunity you might not get otherwise, for all of your powers.” 

She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “What?”

“You can apologize to Leon.” 

He waited two heartbeats and then a slow, almost victorious smile came across his face, as if he could read the guilt in the lines of her body or the look on her face. As if he could see exactly what that name did to her in the middle of the night when there was no one in the cottage but herself. As if he could see how it made her curl into herself, trying to forget the feel of brown curls between her fingers and the dead light of her magic in his eyes. 

“What? Nothing to say to that? You said, in your testimony to the court of Camelot that you regretted involving him. Isn’t that true? Unfortunately he wasn’t there to hear it.” 

She pushed past him a bit too roughly for his condition, but he didn’t waver or stumble when their shoulders bumped together. She climbed the stairs. “What exactly do you think an apology will accomplish?” 

“Maybe it will help him sleep better at night.” 

She stopped. 

“Maybe he’ll stop having nightmares about a witch possessing him.” 

She turned around. “He does not have nightmares.”

“How would you know?”

She wanted to throw up her arms in frustration. “How has this become about Leon?” 

“I don’t know. If you’re so powerful why are you so reluctant to come to Camelot? If you’re a healer why are you so reluctant to heal my people? Because you know Leon will be there? Because you are afraid to face him?”

Like a dog with a bone, he was, a puppy so reluctant to relinquish a shirt to his master that he’d rather let the fabric rip to pieces.

The silence seemed to fill her lungs and she had to breathe past it for several seconds before she could speak. “I will travel with you and make sure that you are battle ready by the time we reach Camelot. I will go to the battlefield and do what I can for your wounded. I will apologize to Leon and offer him protection against magic like mine. I will return here afterwards and all my debts will be paid.” 

The slam of the door behind her was not nearly as satisfying as she had hoped it would be because only two seconds later she realized she’d have to go back out to gather the monkshood root. 

“Not a word,” she told Pendragon and to his credit he simply went back into the house. 

The rest of the night was spent in tense silence. Gloria prepared as many potions as she could and copied out some recipes from the tome unto loose pieces of parchment. She forced Merlin to make dinner and made Gwaine help Arthur take a bath upstairs. It was high time the prince washed his hair and shaved. They ate the stew and Gwaine had to change the linen on Arthur’s cot while Merlin did the dishes. Arthur sat, stony and silent, in an armchair near the window. In the morning, Gloria performed the ritual on Arthur’s back to speed up the healing, like she’d done the night before and they all set off on horseback. They were forced to double up and Gloria didn’t miss the look on Merlin’s face when Arthur pulled her on his horse behind him. Gwaine mounted behind Merlin and refrained from commenting. 

In three days times, they would reach the battlements and towers of Camelot and they’d slip into the city as silent as shadows. They’d find the city in an uproar, with another batch of victims only newly arrived. They’d find men dying and women desperately wrapping them in bandages and feeding them potions. They’d find the lower town burning candles to pray for their families and Camelot and their crops. They’d find the city suffering of war. 

The End


End file.
